li 
1 



ROCHE ABBEY, 



OTHER POEMS, 

WIT$ A few • I 

SUA **nii 
ESSAYS TNMtOSE, 

WHICH HAVE BEEN READ BEFORE 



REV. 


w. 


BY THE 

J. BUTLER, 

if 


M.A. 


OF 


ST. 


John's college, 

CAMBRIDGE. 


) 



NOTTINGHAM: 

J. HICKLIN AND CO. JOURNAL OFFICE. 
1835. 



-ftw?* 



1)1 ^ 







(23* The profitg arising from this publication will be devoted to the 
foundation of a Weekly and Sunday School, on the principles of the 
Established Church, in a small Country Village, where such an Institu- 
tion is much wanted. 



\<K 



x 



*i 









PREFACE. 



In offering this small and unpretending volume to 
the public, the author is not so vain as to imagine that 
things which have cost him so little time and trouble 
can possess any high degree of literary or poetical 
merit. He begs leave, however, to anticipate a very 
natural question, by adding, that (with one exception, 
perhaps, the concluding essay) he has bestowed at 
least as much care and attention upon them as their 
own utility deserves, or his own occupations permitted. 
He was induced to select these papers from his cabinet 
for publication, partly toplejase a few, probably, very 



IV. PREFACE. 

partial friends; and under the hope that what had 
afforded pleasure to a small circle, would do him no 
discredit, when submitted to one a little more extended. 
But his chief inducement was, the hope of raising a 
fund, from the subscription, for a purpose he had ex- 
ceedingly at heart. He is happy to say, this object 
has been realised to the full extent of his anticipa- 
tions. 

The author, therefore, begs to return his most 
humble and respectful, as well as sincere and heart- 
felt thanks, to that numerous and distinguished list, 
who have honoured him with their assistance. He 
does not expect to reap from this publication any 
harvest, either of profit or reputation ; but he relies 
upon the promise of Him, without whose blessing all 
the works of man are entirely vain and fruitless, that 
" the bread thus cast upon the waters," will be found 
again " after many days," 

But there is one individual in that list, of whose 
goodness and generosity the author cannot resist the 
pleasure of making this grateful mention. This gentle- 
man, is Robert Prickett, Esquire, of Harley Street, 



PREFACE. 



and of Octon Lodge, in the East Riding of the county 
of York, who is not only the Lord of the Manor, but 
likewise proprietor of by far the greater proportion of 
the parish of Thwing — that parish, for whose advan* 
tage this little book is now published. 

After having ornamented, at his own expense, the 
interior of the parish Church ; and in a manner which, 
whether we consider the tastefulness of the design, or the 
beauty of the execution, is worthy of the highest praise ; 
this gentleman is now erecting a School, and a house 
adjoining to the school, for the common use and instruc- 
tion of all the children of the parish. Of the beauty of 
the above mentioned work, every visitor of Scarborough, 
Burlington, or Filey, may easily satisfy himself — the 
nobler and more exalted feelings which have prompt- 
ed it, every one, doubtless, will appreciate. That 
he may long continue to visit, occasionally, those whose 
real interest he has ever had so much at heart ; and 
may, at every succeeding visit, have more and better 
reason to be gratified with his exertions — is the earnest 
wish and prayer of (the author is entirely persuaded), 
every individual in the parish. 



VI. PREFACE. 

After such a statement as the foregoing, to depre- 
cate the severity of criticism would surely be unneces- 
sary. The author, however, begs once more to say. 
in the conclusion of this preface, that his only claim 
to the kindness of his readers is founded upon the 
object of his publication, and the absence of all preten- 
sion on his own part. 



Nottingham, April, 1835. 



ROCHE ABBEY. 



TO 



THE RIGHT HONOURABLE 



THE COUNTESS OF LINCOLN, 



BY HER LADYSHIPS GRACIOUS PERMISSION, 



THIS LITTLE POEM 



IS MOST RESPECTFULLY 



INSCRIBED. 



INTRODUCTION. 



These careless rhymes were commenced in that beautiful spot, 
Roche Abbey, on paying it an early morning visit, in the Summer 
of 1834, and were finished during the same excursion. 

" O when the morn and noon of life are past, 
The flowers all wither'd whioh my path adorn : 

When, cold and chilly, blows the evening blast, 
My hopes all changed affections haply torn ! 

" Grant me the faded traces to renew, 

Of scenes that gladded, once, my youthful heart ; 

To call Expression's faded lines to view, 
From buried Friendship's grave compelled to start. 

" O paint them fair and fresh, as when the eye 
Dwelt on their charms, with Hope's ecstatic thrill ; 

And, down the calm of Life's descending sky, 
*T will cast one parting gleam of rapture still !" 

The foregoing lines are not original, but as thus arranged from 
memory, they seem to express the feelings of the writer, and, as such, 
are prefixed to this little poem. By whom they were written, and 
in what work they are to be found he cannot at all remember. 



ROCHE ABBEY. 



" I love not man the less, but nature more, 

" From these our interviews, in which I steal 

" From all I may be, or have been before ; 

" To mingle with the universe, and feel 

" What I can ne'er express— yet cannot all conceal." 

Childe Harold. 



Roche Abbey — dear Roche Abbey ! once again 
Thy shades I view ! of hasty thoughts a train 
Too rapidly gush forth ; the pen may drink 
Its jetty draught in silence, but the chain 
Of thought must be unravell'd, link by link, 
Ere fit for memory's use, and I would fain 
Hold converse with thy wood nymphs^ by the brink 
Of yonder silvery lake : come let us calmly think. 



ROCHE ABBEY. 

Thou sacred ruin ! in this humble verse 
No dry detail of facts we now rehearse (*) 
How old Durandus leads a rigid band, 
To seek a lone asylum thro' the land ; 
From old Eboracum they took their way — 
Cistertians strict — they mourn their rules decay ; 
To Fountains some their weary footsteps bent, 
And some, at Kirkstall, pitch'd their hallow'd tent : 
Whilst others still a wider circle chose, 
In search of some lone haven of repose : 
Till here, amid these crags, now green with moss, 
They note the image of the blessed cross ; 
Hail it a token from the hand divine, 
And kneel and worship by that blessed sign ! 

So the bold Greeks the wise Athenian led, 
O'er Asia's plains, till hope had well nigh fled, 
Climbing, one sunny morn, a mountain's brow, 
Behold the ocean's wide expanse below ! 
Each, in the distance, views his home again — 
Or seems to view it o'er the welcome main : 
At once to heaven their joyous cries ascend, 
At once they feel their labours at an end ; 
That single moment's joy, at once, repays 
The toil and peril of a thousand days ! 

Not such our pilgrim's joy — no, rather say. 
The calmness of the prophet's last survey ; 



ROCHE ABBEY. 

When he from Pisgah's summit gazed below, 
O'er plains thro' which the Jordan's water flow ! 
No land of promised joy to him he knew, 
But, still, a seraph glance his vision threw ; 
In steadfast faith a happier land he hail'd, 
E'en whilst his eye grew dim, his spirit fail'd ! 
These weary pilgrims knew, within that wild, 
No paradise for them in gladness smil'd ! 
But in that cross a fond assurance read, 
That heaven had hitherward their footsteps led. 

Beneath these lofty * limestone rocks they find 
A welcome shelter from the cold North wind : 
No warm luxurious monks, I ween, were they, (*) 
Beneath the canopy of heaven they lay ; 
Whilst neighbouring Barons, in their holy pride, 
To aid their labour with each other vied. 
Hence soon a spacious edifice arose, 
E'en where the site, himself, Durandus chose : 
And thither, soon, resort a humble flock, 
To hail thy shrine— " St. Mary of the rock !" (3) 

We do not, then, Roche Abbey, chime with those 
Whose angry bile so very promptly flows, 

* An apology is due for speaking " Geologically," yet they are 
lime-stone, and their whiteness rather picturesque. In the opinion 
of Sir Christopher Wren, the Roche Abbey stone is one of the best 
in our Island for " building purposes. 5 ' 

a2 



10 ROCHE ABBEY. 

Whene'er the name of Abbey — or of Monk, 
Their ear or eye encounters : true, ye sunk ; 
Because no longer suited to the times ; 
But, thus, to charge ye with a thousand crimes, 
Be far from our design : your monks we trace, 
The benefactors of the human race : 
Still, in those barbarous days, ye ever lent 
Food, shelter, to the poor and indigent ! 

Nought can be perfect in the world below I 
Whilst sin and shame abide, our tears shall flow : 
But let us not the sister truth forget, 
Nought is all evil ! sorrow is a debt 
Incurr'd by sin — the constant fruit of ill, 
But let us not forget that we distil, 
From present evil oft-times future good, 
As nauseous roots, when dress'd, are wholesome food* 

The zeal that founded ye, we partly praise, 
And partly censure, justly, when it lays 
House, still, to house, and field to fertile field, 
Professing poverty. And yet a shield 
Ye held above the poor and innocent ; 
Thus, tho' with evil mix'd, we are content 
To deem your orders suited to the time : 
Just so it, doubtless, was a frightful crime 
That general spoliation ! Sad the woes ( 4 ) 
Which, thence, throughout the bleeding land arose. 



ROCHE ABBEY. 11 

Yet, Poenix-like, may good from evil spring", 
A reformation from a worthless king ! 

And, therefore, still, when scatter'd all around, 
An Abbey's ruins, like to thine, are found ; 
We are content to meditate, with eye * 
Of heartfelt interest, as we saunter by : 
We still confess that ye were useful, then, 
Where every castle was a robber's den ! 
We still lament thy church destroy'd — to raise 
Some petty edifice of modern days : 
Still, in thy ruins, read, a tatter 'd page, 
Bright truth re-kindled from a tyrant's rage ! 

In peace four sober centuries calmly pass, 
Peaceful to such as ye, tho' oft, alas, 
Mad civil war the nation drench'd in blood, 
But still, in lonely peace, the Abbey stood : 
Till rapine stalk'd, in triumph, o'er the land, 
Where tyranny bore rule — a stalwart hand 
Seized on thy revenues — distrain'd thy rent — * 
And, pitiless, thy reverend brothers sent 
To seek their quiet graves where best they could : 
Nor, thus deserted, long the Abbey stood. 

* This may seem a mixed metaphor, but what says the Poet? 

— " 5 T is the heart that rules the eye, 
" And turns a wint'ry to a summer sky." 



12 ROCHE ABBEY. 

Art, o'er its scatter'd, stones may drop her tear- 
But ye who ask for history — read it here ! 

Truce for a season, then, with days gone by : 
First let us mark what changes greet the eye ; 
First let us range o'er things now present, ere 
We turn our sadder thoughts to such as were ! 
Ere long departed scenes admission find, 
With those before us let us cheer the mind ; 
For by -gone scenes and thoughts of other years, 
Too commonly are rife with scalding tears ! 

O let us first admire the morning sun : 
His bright and joyous reign is now begun. 
Whilst all creation, smiling in his rays, 
Would seem to join in one bright hymn of praise. 

See on the gentle water now he gleams, 
The gentle water, fed by silvery streams ; 
And, whilst his rays illume the quiet glades, 
On trembling leaves he casts a thousand shades. 
How bright, upon each leaf, the glittering dew — 
For ever varying, for ever new ! 
One moment caught its sparkle — now 'tis past — 
Yet every gleam is brighter than the last : 
These, these are charms no pencil can essay, 
For who can seize and fix that fleeting ray? 



ROCKE ABBEY. 13 

How various and how stately are thy trees 
That bend so gracefully before the breeze ! 
The sturdy oak looks frowningly around, 
With green dependant ivy closely bound ; 
Here is the dark and patriarchal yew ; 
The stately elm, and lively quicken, too ; 
The beech bows gracefully, with glossy leaf, 
The whiter hawthorn weeps — no tears of grief — 
No, tho' the dew descends, in welcome shower, 
As every bough may feel the breezes power ; 
It falls, fast dripping, from that leafy wreath 
And glads, with tears of joy, the herbs beneath I 

Yea, thus, in solitude, the verse will flow : 
How ! said we solitude ? ah no, ah no ! 
When solitude, e'en now, was on my lip 
Regardless, I, of that companionship, 
The gentle birds are claiming in each tone — 
Then why should man proclaim himself alone ? 
Hark ! in their sportive mood, the feather'd throng 
Lighten their labour with a joyous song ! 
Hark, in each tree, throughout the spacious grove, 
Trills, from some slender throat, a tale of love ! 
O, whilst the warblers dart from side to side, 
To call this " solitude'' indeed were pride ! 

Now, as I nearer draw to yonder rocks, 
At once I scent the rank unsavoury fox ; 



14 ROCHE ABBEY. 

And no companion will he prove, I ween, 
Reynard is far too cunning to be seen ! 
Nay, so abiding, on the tainted wind, 
The strong, foul scent, the traitor leaves behind. 
Tho' here, last night, in cover he might lay, 
Ere this, perchance, he may be miles away : 
Gone with that stealthy gallop which can tire 
" The hound's deep hate," and quench " the hunter's 
fire." 

An outlaw'd villain he — yea, every hand 
Is raised against him thro' the busy land : 
Save — 't is a paradox, we must confess — 
The sworn fox-hunter, all are pitiless : 
How have I seen the brow in anger bent, 
When styled " A Kentishman" or " Man of Kent." 
And tho' th' unlearn'd in venatorial craft 
At such distinction may have loudly laughed, 
Yet this is nothing to the wounded pride 
Of sportsman — if you call him " Vulpecide ! " 

I would some learned sage were here to tell 
Why angry passions in each bosom swell; 
Why rage and jealousy and petty spite 
Prompt every living thing to scratch and bite ; 
Nay, every creature, too, its wrath expends 
On those whom one would deem its proper friends : 
For, look through all creation, still we find 
Like against like — kind combating with kind ! 



ROCHE ABBEY. 15 

E'en now, whilst here these strictures we are writing, 
Behold two foolish half-fledged moor hens fighting : 
As little like two combatants are these, 
As any creatures in the world one sees : 
So feebly arm'd for mischief — claw or bill — 
But there the " animus" is present still. 
I watch their motions from this mossy desk ; 
Sure ne'er was witness'd such a true burlesque ! 
How fiercely rise their feathers ! In each eye 
What rage ! a satire upon chivalry ! 
Peace, foolish creatures, peace ! the fight is o'er — 
They waddle oft, and quit the grassy shore, 
Launch on the shallow pond and seek the weeds, 
There each may claim a triumph as it feeds. 

Roche Abbey — sweet Roche Abbey ! years are 
fled 
Since first my limbs upon this mossy bed 
In childhood — careless childhood — I did cast, 
But still the love I bore thee is not past ! 
With interest, now, each spot I can explore 
Look all thy well remember'd secrets o'er : 
See where each sister, cousin, mark'd her foot, 
Where his initials, too ? my brother cut ; 
On bench, or bark of tree, or harder stone, 
And where, beside, I would not cut my own — 
I know not what withheld me, what forbid, 
I only know the fact, I never did* 



16 ROCHE ABBEY. 

Aye years are fled ! — but still in memory's page, 
Whilst gazing backward, from a middle age, 
Methinks I scarce have felt more peaceful, calm, 
More free from ills, from peril or alarm 
Than at this moment — when around I gaze, 
And watch the " short horns" * on the margin graze 
Of yonder silvery water, loved of yore ; 
Tho' five and twenty years are gone, and more, 
Since first I traced, in childhood, every path 
Daring, in baby might, my nurse's wrath ! 

And tell me, then, my bosom, why is this ? 
The world is dark. Is it ideal bliss ? 
I feel that I am sinful — hot my blood — 

proves it not that heaven is very good ? 

But still Roche Abbey, still, from time to time 

1 love to visit thee and weave my rhyme ; 

And think of former pranks and scenes gone by, 
Which never can return ! How years will fly 
When we are young and ardent — and our hope 
E'en with impossibilities can cope ! 

Here as a youth, too, I could joy to rove, 
Here have I whisper 'd faltering words of love, 

* The " short horns" are not perhaps essential to the poetry, but 
the writer being an admirer of cattle, was struck with their symmetry 
and blood. 



ROCHE ABBEY. 17 

Press'd a soft hand, my youthful heart on fire, 
Would rest in mine a moment — then retire : 
But still retire so softly — as it fain 
Would have the intruder still intrude again ! 
That these were transient feelings I have learnt, 
For, O, the heart that passion once hath burnt, 
May analyze such youthful fancies well, 
And love, from boyish meagrims safely tell ! 

Ah me ! what thoughts of other days arise, 
Warm, glowing, radiant with a thousand dyes ! 
Bright as the days when I was all but mad, 
Bright as those days — and yet most truly sad ! 
Scenes of the hours that never can return, 
Forms of the friends, for whom the heart may yearn, 
Yet never more recall ! How far and wide 
Those friends are scatter'd ! Seas may now divide 
Those who, beneath these shades, have, hand in hand, 
Danced on the velvet green, a joyous band ! 

Perchance some thought connected with this spot, 
Of hide and seeking play — in dell or grot : 
Perchance a song, a dance, or story told, 
Ere years on years upon our heads had roll'd, 
May touch the pilgrim's heart — or dim his eye, 
May cloud his brow, or wake the rising sigh ; 
Recall to memory, after years on years, 
And drown the thought itself in gushing tears ! 



18 ROCHE ABBEY. 

Turn we to lighter theme. In yonder shade 
I've watch'd the sportive step of many a maid ; 
What gypsy parties, here, my heart recalls ! 
More gay and joyous than the crowded balls 
Where Fashion's votaries meet to wile away, 
The proper hours of sleep, and rest by day. 

Yes, of those joyous scenes the memory still, 
With close detail, each hasty sketch can fill : 
Recall to mind the game, or tale, or song 
That urged, to flying speed, the hours along; 
Can still renew the thought, so long forgot, 
Of each adventure in this lonely spot — 
Each petty quarrel — nay, each pouting lip, 
That spake vexation, at the moment, deep, 
Tho' soon forgotten : such things ever were — 
We quarrel still for trifles light as air ! 

Perchance the party's queen — how brief her reign I 
Presuming on her fancied power grows vain ; 
Like greater potentates of Earth provokes 
Rebellion, happily confined to jokes ! 
Yet many a cutting word, pronounced in jest, 
May sink and rankle in that snowy breast : 
Whilst ready rebels — ever ripe for fun — 
Or riper still for mischief, urge it on : 
How many times it was my lot to see, 
Roche Abbey thus, life's true epitome ! 



ROCHE ABBEY. 19 

Of Petronilla let me think again 
Light, pretty, clever, but, alas ! how vain I 
Delighting still, in gaiety and din, 
Each fool' s attentions could her favour win ; 
Yet, for amusement, was she well content 
To waste an idle hour on — Sentiment. 
Yet love, with her, was mere amusement, play, 
Thrown by to-morrow, tho' sincere to-day. 
She knew not — she was happy — what it meant, 
My chains were broken — I was well content : 
Perchance our scorn was mutual — but 'tis o'er; 
We parted coldly — and we met no more. 

Her's were the form, and mien, and lips, and eyes, 
Could make a ready fool of him more wise ; 
Her's was the voice, the very soul could melt, 
Until one thought that what she sung, she felt I 
We know not how her mental stature grew, 
We speak but of the lady as we knew ; 
We speak but of her in her blooming youth — 
And, if we speak at all, must say the truth. 

On her, on many more, my thoughts can dwell ; 
Sweet maids, I knew you, and I loved you well. 
O could we meet, methinks, by yonder stile, 
How should we all upon each other smile ; 
To see the change that Time's slow hand hath wrought, 
Recurring to the past in rapid thought ! 



20 ROCHE ABBEY. 

The slender stripling, haply, six feet high, 
Our recollection might at once defy. 
Perchance the comrade nimble, active, stout, 
Is now a victim to the stone or gout ! 
The sylph-like maid a portly matron now, 
Whose household cares are written on her brow : 
The pale, thin school girl, then so silent, shy, 
May now be mother of a smiling fry : 
And ah ! how many, once so blythe and gay, 
Hath disappointment mark'd her hapless prey ! 
How many may be, now, beyond the wave — 
How many slumber in the peaceful grave ! 

Roche Abbey — dear Roche Abbey ! Early — late 
In thy sweet shades I can luxuriate ; 
But o'er thy verdant alleys should the Muse 
Wander, and one amongst thy beauties choose, 
Here, where soft nature fondly doth rejoice 
In many thousand charms, her steadfast choice, 
On yonder wild and rural bridge should pause — 
My fancy, still, with silken thread, it draws ; 
I ever loved that bridge — to me it seems, 
Created in a poet's softest dreams ! 

See, o'er its mossy weir, tho' rough, compact, 
The rushing water forms a cataract : 
Falls foaming over to the stream below, 
Yet, in its channel, scarcely seems to flow : 



ROCHE ABBEY. 21 

Where spotted trout the sparkling eddies greet, 
And arching boughs o'ershadow a retreat, 
Where the shy wood nymph, in the silent wave, 
Her feet in sylvan privacy might lave ! 

'T is time this rambling tale should have an end, 
My theme exhausted, now my steps I bend, 
To scenes of dull reality, once more ; 
The idle day dream of the past is o'er ! 
But ere we part, for ever, I would fain 
Bestow one thought upon thy stones again ; 
A philosophic glance must needs confess, 
Of all our thoughts the utter littleness ! 
And tho' importance we ourselves may give 
To that small circle, where we move and live, 
Thy ruin'd walls, Roche Abbey, are no more 
Than just one splinter on a wreck-strew'd shore ! 

How empires perish on the world's wild wave ! 
How pomp is brought in sorrow to the grave ! 
" Bel boweth down, and haughty Nebo stoops," 
At Tyre, behold the squalid fisher groups : 
Where, where are Nineveh, Seleucia gone ? 
And where the Grecian pride of Ctesiphon ? 
Through fair Palmyra moans the desert air, 
Where is Persepolis ? And Susa where ? 
See Egypt's pride, and Ethiopia's skill, 
Museums, in our Western cities, fill : 



22 ROCHE ABBEY. 

O can the eye such devastation see, 
And spare one pitying glance to such as thee ? 
Then, with this closing truth, we rest, my pen, 
" These little things are great to little men !" 



KOTES. 

(1) The poem contains indeed a very brief sketch of the Abbey's 
fortunes. In Allan's county history will he found a list of the 
Abbots from Durandus, 1147, to Hugh Cundell, who with seventeen 
monks signed the surrender in 1539. 

(2) In the first instance it will appear, that as at Fountain's 
Abbey, the monks lived under the shelter of the rocks and yew trees, 
the lords of Mai thy, Hooton, and Wickersley, were their chief 
benefactors, and the buildings were completed in 1187. Hugh de 
Wadworth was probably the ablest ruler; but his successor, Osmond, 
formerly cellarer of Fountains, and who presided from 1184 to 1223, 
witnessed its completion. 

(3) Sancta Maria de Rupe, was a daughter of the Cistertian 
Abbey of St. Mary, at York, familiarly called " Rock's Abbey,'* 
which was softened into Roche Abbey. It had no connexion with 
St. Roche, but was an ascetic swarm, like Fountains and Kirkstall, 
the mother having greatly relaxed from the severities of the 
Cistertian discipline. 

(4) For a picture of the wretchedness that followed the dissolution 
of the Monasteries, see Mr. Sadler's work on Ireland, where the 
older authorities are cited. 

(5) Roche Abbey was never very rich. In answer to Cromwell's 
enquiry, its income in 1539, was £170. per annum. Its debts, £20. 
and its stock was as follows: — 

Sixty oxen and kine ; one hundred and twenty sheep ; five cart 
horses; two mares; one foal; one stag; and eighty quarters of 
wheat and malt. The plate was very scanty. 



ON THE POETRY OF 

POPE AND BYRON. 



TO 

HENRY GALLY KNIGHT, 

OF LANGOLD, 
IN THE COUNTY OF NOTTINGHAM, ESQUIRE, 

THIS ESSAY 

IS RESPECTFULLY INSCRIBED. 



AN ESSAY 



POETRY OF POPE AND BYRON. 



" They writ, and rhymed, and railed, and sung, and said, 
and said nothing." 

Battle of the Books. 



It will be obvious to every one who takes the trouble 
to read the following paper, that it is rather a brief and 
condensed view of the writer's ideas and opinions, than 
an elaborate essay on the subject. Should this, how- 
ever, be taken as an objection, he begs to observe, that 
it is exactly what he kept in view in the course of its 
composition and arrangement. Restricted to the time 



28 AN ESSAY ON THE 

usually occupied by an ordinary lecture, it was merely 
intended as a sketch, or outline ; and, for the pre- 
sent volume, he has preferred offering it exactly as 
it elicited the approbation of those who heard it read 
in its original form, to any new and extended arrange- 
ment of its materials : the latter, indeed, the writer has 
to add, he reserves to himself, at any further time ; when 
his leisure or inclination may enable him to return to 
a more ample consideration of the subject. 

Whenever we observe any remarkable similarity 
between different periods in history, it may always be 
accounted for upon philosophical principles. Because, 
whenever any particular kind of person is required, 
for any particular occasion, such a person is invariably 
found. Because, whenever any fortuitous course of 
circumstances brings about any arrangement what- 
ever, the persons, who take a part in it, derive their 
tone from the circumstances by which they are sur- 
rounded. In the present essay, we have only to do 
with the matters of taste and literature, and we will, 
therefore, content ourselves with observing — that it is 
only necessary to find two periods in history where the 
circumstances are so much alike, as to awaken a simi- 
larity of public taste ; and immediately there is a 
striking resemblance in the character of their re- 
spective literatures. Whatever kind of persons public 
taste is disposed to encourage, will immediately present 



POETRY OF POPE AND BYRON. 29 

themselves — not only as candidates for fame, but, also 
for those more substantial rewards which the public is 
able to dispense. We shall find, it is true, a striking 
difference in the individual character of such candi- 
dates. Some will lead, and some will follow the bent 
of fashion. But there are circumstances favourable to 
certain kind of literary pursuits, and there are others 
favourable to pursuits of a different nature : and we 
may assume it to be a general rule, that the public 
demand will always meet with a supply — in literary, as 
well as operative manufactures. 

As to general circumstances, this similarity will, to 
n certain extent, be found to have existed between the 
two periods, which are marked out in the subject of 
the present essay, and proportionate to the closeness 
of that resemblance, is the similarity between the poe- 
tical taste and general literature of the two periods. 
Let us, however, trace an outline of the history of 
poetry in England : and the observations which have 
to follow can scarcely fail of being rendered more easy 
of comprehension. Let us begin with the age of 
Chaucer, and designate the period from his time to 
the reign of Henry the Eighth, as the first period 
of English poetry. 

Chaucer and Gower, who seem to have awakened 
the muses in Albion, undoubtedly possessed the ele- 
ments of poetry in their own minds ; but in the essen- 
tial desideratum of a language they were lamentably 



30 AN ESSAY ON THE 

deficient. Let us suppose a fine and feeling musician 
playing upon an instrument incapable of keeping 
tune, and we have a type of their situation. Yet 
in spite of these difficulties, poetry actually advanced ! 
In the absence of any higher standard of excellence, 
Chaucer and Gower were considered, in their day, to 
be models of graceful diction and elegant versification. 
The stimulus which they gave to the public taste, 
remained when they themselves were no more; and, it 
is certain, that they are still entitled to the praise and 
gratitude of Englishmen in general. 

Let us proceed to the second period. During the 
long civil wars by which England was desolated about 
the middle of the 15th century, poetry, an art that 
delighteth in peaceful leisure, languished; but the 
germs of life remained to awaken with the genial sun 
of peace. A few feeble rhymes recorded in the Mirror 
of Magistrates, commencing about the reign of 
Henry the Seventh, testify that, though languid and 
drowsy, the muses were not quite dead. It was a dark 
period — but 

"Hope, the charmer, lingered still behind." 

In the more peaceful reigns of the Tudors, poetry 
was cultivated by several accomplished courtiers. Lord 
Rochford, brother to the beautiful and interesting 
Anna Boleyn, was a man of elegant taste ; and even 
he was entirely eclipsed by his noble kinsman, the far 



POETRY OF POPE AND BYRON. 31 

famed Earl of Surrey. Hence the popular taste of 
the day was led, by these courtly poets, into a devotion 
towards female beauty, and any one who will take the 
trouble to read their prettinesses, will find much to 
admire. Absorbed, however, as all men were, so 
shortly afterwards, in the interest of the Reformation, 
again the muses languished, and took a dormouse nap. 
It is just, however, to observe, that there was a 
school of poetry in the reign of Henry the Eighth, of 
an opposite character to that of Lord Surrey. Of this, 
Skelton may be mentioned as the Coryphceus. It was 
coarse and sensual. 

In the reign of Elizabeth, the muses appeared to be 
refreshed by their slumbers. It is true, the Surrey school 
degenerated into that euphemism, so richly caricatured 
by the immortal Scott, in the character of Sir Piercie 
Shafton ; two giants, however, at this period, " re- 
joiced to run their course,'* — Shakspeare and Spenser. 
The fetters of bad taste and depraved fashion broke in 
their mighty hands, as the withy bonds of the Philis- 
tines in those of Sampson. England could now boast 
of two names worthy to be placed beside the noblest 
that were recorded in the annals of any people. 

The puritanical times were, however, once more a 
narcotic to the tuneful Nine ; and although that newly 
awakened passion for the drama had taken a strong hold 
upon the public taste, and struggled hard against the 
soporific influence, yet,Beaumont and Fletcher — Shirley 



32 AN ESSAY ON THE 

and Massinger left their works to be appreciated more 
favourably by posterity, than by their own contempora- 
ries. During this period, however, our national lan- 
guage was approaching towards a classical standard. 
In Waller, it is not far from perfect : although he was 
an anthologist, rather than a poet. But with the re- 
storation of peace, there came an inundation of bad 
taste from France, a country which would almost ap- 
pear to have no poetry in its natural character and 
composition. It was, indeed, a wretched time for 
England. See her under Elizabeth, and again under 
the Stuarts, and observe what the Puritans and the 
French had done for her by their united efforts ! 

Yet men of mighty genius arose, and commenced, 
though under evil auspices, the work of regeneration. 
Milton, with an ear of musical accuracy — a genius 
truly Homeric — a memory stored with all the richest 
treasures of classical learning — deeply imbued with the 
literature of the Continental nations ; and lastly, with 
a taste, which, like the wand of the fairy Order, in that 
charming nursery tale — conjured every thing, instinct- 
ively, into its right place. Milton struck out, at once, 
a work which is still the second poem in the world ! 
The language he very nearly invented as he pro- 
ceeded : he was poor — blind — and he sold it for a few 
pounds. It was the only means he had to bring it 
before the public ; and wonders, indeed, it wrought ! 
Milton was truly a public benefactor. 



POETRY OF POPE AND BYRON. 33 

Nor, on the other hand, if fairly considered, was 
" Unhappy Dryden," as he is graphically designated 
by Pope — a kindred genius, blessed with a much more 
favourable position. " Unhappy Dryden" exerted his 
talents in order to obtain money, rather than fame. 
Whilst his immortal contemporary, Milton, shook 
off the trammels of false taste, and although surround- 
ed by poverty, and afflicted by blindness, saw, in his 
mind's eye, an immortal reward before him, Dryden 
flattered that execrable taste ; and obtained, in ex- 
change, a noble wife — and barely the means of living 
in .a rank suitable to such a connexion. 

It is indeed a melancholy prospect which is present- 
ed by that age of Gallomania. Milton, Otway, But- 
ler, starving to death ! Dryden rescued only from the 
same fate, by the sacrifice of half his reputation ! The 
Augustan ; the Elizabethan ages were forgotten, and 
that of Louis Quatorze, forsooth, was regarded as the 
summit of all that was, or could be great and exalted ! 
But, when she resumed her political rank, England 
vindicated, also, the independence of her national 
literature. Men of sound learning and good taste came 
into power, and took the lead in the government of 
the country. Addison and Steele introduced more 
correct notions of criticism — -or, at any rate, ably fol- 
lowed the path which Dryden had pointed out. That 
invaluable instrument, a periodical literature, also, began 
to be made use of, and appreciated. 
b2 



34 4N ESSAY ON THE 

In the reign of Queen Anne the modern school of 
English literature was fairly and firmly established. 
The advocates of the old and bad taste, indeed, strug- 
gled hard ; but mightier minds opposed them, armed, 
also, with immortal weapons — for truth was on their 
side. It was the battle of the gods against the Titans. 
Addison pointed out the beauties of Milton, and the 
people, capable of reading him, awoke in wonder. The 
Dunciad, also, fell like a thunderbolt amongst the 
crowd of conceited drivellers, who imagined them- 
selves to be stars of literature — and the victory was 
completed ! 

Here, then, we are arrived at the age of Pope : but 
it is necessary that we proceed. On the death of 
Queen Anne, politics once more smothered the taste 
for letters, and although the giants of the day went on 
with their respective careers, yet no new writers 
appeared to take their places. It is true, Johnson and 
Goldsmith displayed, in two pieces, each, a genius 
equalling Pope's secondary efforts in poetry ; but they 
were, happily, taken away, and turned to more profit- 
able labours. For half a century there was scarcely a 
poet, excepting Churchill, deserving the title, and he 
wasted his powers in political excitement. 

We are by no means inclined to undervalue the 
political blessings induced by the accession of the 
House of Brunswick ; but, undoubtedly, to the Belles 
Lettres, the three first reigns of that House was a 



POETRY OF POPE AND BYRON. 35 

somewhat Boeotian period. Many writers of high 
reputation flourished in various departments of learn- 
ing ; but poetry languished, for there was little encou- 
ragement. Churchill, Savage, and Chatterton were neg- 
lected ; they were not men of character : neither were 
they, any more than Young, Thomson, and Goldsmith, 
stars of the first magnitude. Johnson, whose wants 
were few, was affluent on a small pension. Burke 
— but this is foreign to our subject, and we must 
confine ourselves to poetry. 

We repeat, the two first reigns of the House of 
Brunswick, and the greater part of the third were (as 
respected poetry) a Boeotian period. Can any thing 
be so contemptible as the periodical literature, with the 
few exceptions of a small number of essays by the 
first names of the age ? The two first Georges were 
ignorant men, bigotted to their own narrow German 
views: and the Belles Lettres did not emerge from 
that cloud, in the earlier part of the reign of George 
the Third. It is not, however, the least praiseworthy 
circumstance in his high and estimable character, that 
his own family w r ere instructed with the greatest care, 
and that several of them arrived at unusual attain- 
ments. It is certain, also, that the Prince, who could 
carry on the recorded conversations he held with 
Smeaton, Johnson, and Miss Burney — who patronized 
Handel and Herschel — and who took so much delight 
in the readings of Mrs. Siddons— must have possessed 



36 AN ESSAY ON THE 

taste, and known something of literature and science : 
the genius of the age, however, was too much absorbed 
in party politics. 

Our object, in this epitome, has been, to shew in a 
few words, that the two periods named in the subject 
of the present essay resembled each other — inasmuch 
as, in each, there was a reviving taste for the Belles 
Lettres, after a period of something very like neglect. 
There is this difference in the cause of that revival, 
which it is, however, proper for us to point out, and 
necessary for our readers to observe. Formerly, 
literature was necessarily dependant upon the patron- 
age of royalty and wealth ; now the number of readers 
is so much increased, that authors and publishers look 
to a different quarter for encouragement. Formerly it 
was flattery that was employed, now it is puff and ad- 
vertisement. Do not let us, whilst we rejoice at the 
emancipation of the Belles Lettres from such a slavery, 
deny the evils into which we have consequently fallen. 
The former may be appreciated from an expression of 
a not very respectable lady writer, in a dedication to a 
young nobleman of Queen Anne's era, and which is 
recorded by Pope himself. She tenders " her kneeling 
adorations" to this object of her flattery! Do not let 
us, whilst rejoicing at this emancipation, lose sight of 
the sordid arts by which the most worthless books are, 
even now, swindled through a first, and perhaps a 
second edition. 



POETRY OF POPE AND BYRON. 37 

We have sketched — the reader will decide how suc- 
cesfully — a view of the two periods : and shewn — the 
reader will judge in how satisfactory a manner — that 
the two ages present, in some measure, a resemblance 
to each other. In each, England was the political 
arbiter in Europe; and in each, her literature was 
pre-eminent. It remains to be shewn, that Pope and 
Byron enacted very much the same part in their re- 
spective periods. Their superior talents as well as their 
rank in society, placed each in a very elevated posi- 
tion. Nor, when closely considered, is there any great 
disparity ; though one was a noble, and the other only 
a private gentleman. Mr. Pope associated with the 
nobility quite as much, if not more, than Lord Byron ; 
and perhaps next to his Lordship was the person of 
highest standing in English society who ever attained 
a really superior eminence, as a poet. 

We are sorry to say, there was too much resemblance 
in their religious opinions — Lord Byron never con- 
cealing his scepticism, and Pope not very success- 
fully. The " Universal Prayer" of Pope is a truly 
Deistical hymn: and, when compared with Byron's 
apostrophe to St. Peter's, at Rome, the similarity is 
but too apparent. 

" Father of all, in every age, 

"In every clime adored, 
" By saint, by savage, or by sage, 

M Jehovah— Jove-^or Lord \ n 



38 AN ESSAY ON THE 

Such is Pope's hymn. Byron observes of St. Peter's, 
that it was the 

" Shrine of all Gods, from Jove to Jesus!" 

and the spirit of the two passages is identically the 
same. 

Both were in circumstances of life which placed them 
above the drudgery of writing, and enabled them to 
follow their own taste and inclination. Accordingly, 
Pope, having obtained the ear of the public, with a 
genius graceful and elegant, undertook that most dif- 
ficult of all works — a poetical translation of the first 
poem in the world. Whilst Byron, after publishing 
some trifling pieces of moderate promise, instead of 
considering how his powers might be addressed to the 
achievement of an immortal reputation, allowed his 
mature efforts to expend themselves upon inferior sub- 
jects. His genius ran riot; Manfred, Cain, Sarda- 
napalus, and his Turkish tales, shew the loftiness of 
genius, but they leave us deeply to regret its applica- 
tion! 

Both were fond, to an intensity, of female society; 
and yet held women in light esteem. Both, however, 
were distinguished by an abundant share of that favour, 
and those smiles which beauty hath ever delighted to 
shower upon genius ! Each had a personal defect, 
which, although it soured, in some slight degree, the 
mind, was no real injury to either. In their private 



POETRY OF POPE AND BYRON. 39 

lives, however, there was a marked difference. Pope, 
from necessity, as well as taste, lived in an elegant 
and economical retirement; he enjoyed the society 
of a small circle of agreeable friends, amongst whom 
he numbered the first men of the age, for rank, 
wealth, ability, and reputation. Whilst Byron selected 
company beneath himself in every respect. He pre- 
ferred to be the sun of a small and ignoble system of 
his own ; where, however, wanting the stability neces- 
sary to any centre of gravitation, his system, like him- 
self, was somewhat irregular and variable. It is 
remarkable, that, with every facility in life, we do not 
find a single eminent personage amongst his intimates ; 
and, indeed, but few whose intimacy was accordant 
with his rank, to say nothing of his exalted genius. 

On this subject we may naturally expect their cor- 
respondence, which is before the public, should throw 
some light. That Lord Byron was a libertine, is but 
too well known, and it is in his familiar letters, that 
the worst side of his character is shewn. Pope, on the 
contrary, never outraged the decencies of life ; but 
from his own letters, it would almost appear that phy- 
sical reasons had as much to do with this as those of a 
moral nature. Let us, however, assign praise, where 
praise is due. Pope was by no means an immoral 
person. 

There is, however, a material difference between the 
epistolary correspondence of the two poets. Pope must 



40 AN ESSAY ON THE 

have either written his letters with a view to their pub- 
lication ; or he was aware that they would be read by 
so many persons, that his reputation was, in some 
measure, at stake upon them. On the contrary, Lord 
Byron — who, excepting as a poet, had very little, if 
any superiority over ordinary persons — has evidently 
thrown off the letters, which have unfortunately been 
published in his name, without any such forethought ! 
Pope's correspondence is a mine of wealth to the 
student of English literature. It is a collection which 
successive generations will always peruse with pleasure 
and instruction. Whilst, in reading that of Byron, we 
must confess our own sentiment was, pity for the un- 
happy poet, and ineffable contempt for the mercenary 
biographer and his employer. 

In their philosophy they differed toto ccelo. Pope 
followed the vague, indefinite notions of Lord Boling- 
broke, a very superficial authority ; and Lord Byron, 
throughout, acted, as well as thought, on impulse, and 
a theory of sentiment entirely vain and absurd. The 
inconsistency of the respective poets is not, when com- 
pared, as to their own philosophic notions, very dif- 
ferent the one from the other. For in his " Essay on 
Man," Pope's leading principle of philosophy, appears 
to consist in an idea of a master passion. Yet, in his 
admirable sketch of Lord Bolingbroke, himself, from 
vvhom the theory was derived, he proves man to be 
the creature of circumstances ; and, in spite of the 



POETRY OF POPE AND BYRON. 41 

power of his master passion, differing as much, at dif- 
ferent periods from himself as any two indifferent per- 
sons possibly could. 

" See the same man in health and iu the gout, 

" Alone — in company — in place or out; 

" Early at business — or at hazard late ; 

" Mad at a fox chase — wise in a debate ; 

" Drunk at a borough— civil at a ball; 

" Friendly at Hackney— faithless at Whitehall." 

This is sufficiently inconsistent with an idea of a master 
passion ; but not more so, than when we find Lord 
Byron, who could only live and breathe under excite- 
ment, writing the most beautiful poetry in praise of 
solitude. 

" To sit on rocks, to muse o'er flood and fell, 
" To slowly trace the forest's shady scene, 
" Where things that own not man's dominion dwell, 
" And mortal foot hath ne'er or rarely been ; 
" To climb the trackless mountain all unseen ; 
" With the wild flock that never needs a fold ; 
" Alone o'er steeps and foaming falls to lean; 
" This is not solitude, 't is but to hold 
" Converse with nature's charms, and view her stores unroll'd." 

And again — - 

" Oh ! that the desert were my dwelling place, 
"With one fair spirit for my minister, 
" That I might all forget the human race, 
" And, hating no one, love but only her! 
" Ye elements ! in whose ennobling stir 
u I feel myself exalted — can ye not 
" Accord me such a being % Do 1 err 
" In deeming such inhabit many a spot? 
" Though with them to converse can rarely be our lot !' J 



42 AN ESSAY ON THE 

We have seen that Pope's graphic sketch from 
real life oversets his own philosophy ; but read the 
foregoing stanzas, and imagine the writer — purely for 
the sake of excitation — and because he could not live in 
peace and quiet, plunging into the maddest schemes, and 
dying a martyr to his own eccentricities ! The truth 
is, that the philosophy of both was an imposture. 

It is, how r ever, time that w r e compare them, as poets, in 
a closer and more circumstantial manner. Placed, 
indeed, in a very similar position as respects their poeti- 
cal genius, and in periods not dissimilar, no two men 
w r ere ever more antithetically opposite to each other in 
character and disposition. The points of resemblance, 
which may be detected in their talents and situations, 
only serve to render the contrast, between their feelings 
and dispositions, the more evident. In one of his most 
happy moods Lord Byron drew a contrast between 
two great writers, w T hose local connexion with the same 
spot (Geneva), has placed them side by side — Voltaire 
and Gibbon. It is a type of the contrast between him- 
self and Pope. Byron speaks thus of Voltaire : — 

11 The one was fire and fickleness, a child 

" Most mutable in wishes, but in mind 

" A wit as various — gay, grave, sage, or wild, 

" Historian, bard, philospher combined ; 

" He multiplied himself amongst mankind. 

" The Proteus of their talents— but his own 

" Breathed most in ridicule; which as the wind 

11 Blew where it listed — laying all things — prone 

" Now to o'erthrow a fool, and now to shake a throne." 



POETRY OF POPE AND BYRON. 43 

He speaks thus of Gibbon — 

" The other— deep, and slow— exhausting thought, 
" And hiving wisdom, with each studious year 
" In meditation dwelt ; with learning wrought, 
" And shaped his weapon with an edge severe, 
" Sapping a solemn creed, with solemn sneer; 
l< The lord of irony — that master spell, 
" Which strung his foes to wrath, which grew from fear, 
" And doom'd him to the zealot's ready hell, 
" Which answers to all doubts so eloquently well." 

These masterly descriptions scarcely afford us a 
stronger contrast, than that between its talented author 
and the translator of the Iliad. Pope was a poetical 
bee, industrious and employed in works of value. It 
is true he was of an irritable temper, and possessed a 
sting, yet he did not often use it. No man is faultless, 
and Pope was certainly not the exception to this rule : 
we must ever regret that he had not a deeper feel- 
ing of religion, but he was undoubtedly a gem in British 
literature. 

On the contrary, Byron was all " fire and fickle- 
ness." He followed up every impulse or suggestion 
of his own heart. Though greedy of praise he scorned 
those who had it to bestow ; and, with a power scarcely 
ever equalled, he has left us to lament as well as to 
admire ! Whilst we acknowledge the force and fire 
of his genius, we mourn over what it has not done, 
while we wonder at what it has effected I 



44 AN ESSAY ON THE 

Pope directed his labours to great and important 
works. Byron let loose the outpourings of a vivid 
imagination, clothed in words of fire, but still with 
scarcely a plan. They are, therefore, and will always 
be, works of interest. But they will never rank on an 
equality with those of Pope. Let us concede, even, to 
Lord Byron that he had more poetical fire and genius 
than any bard that ever lived. Still, as we are to judge 
of him by his works, it tends only to lower his literary 
character : since the higher his genius soared, the 
lower must we appreciate his judgment. 

In order to arrive at a conclusion upon this subject 
let us compare their two principal works, Pope's Homer 
with Childe Harold. 

The great work of Pope is a splendid poem, perhaps 
inferior only to its great original. It is a translation 
worthy of the Iliad — a bright and splendid version of 
its beauties, sacrificing nothing to the tameness of a ' 
copy. Whilst the Iliad is the brightest jewel of 
Grecian literature, the translation of Pope has engraft- 
ed its beauties into our own. 

But what is Childe Harold ? It is an ill-constructed, 
planless work ; yet abounding with beauties of an origi- 
nal and superior character. We see, shadowed forth 
in the gloomy light which Byron vouchsafed only to 
afford us, an indefinite beauty that wins our admiration ; 
and yet we regret, after all, that the poet should have 
deemed himself so much above his business as to have 



POETRY OF POPE AND BYRON. 45 

only thrown together, as it were, a number of jewels — 
almost heedless of arrangement, and entirely so of the 
general effect ! 

Let us next compare their minor works. The 
" Dunciad" is as superior to " The English Bards and 
Scotch Reviewers," as the " Homer" is to " Childe 
Harold." " The Rape of the Lock" is, to any one of all 
Lord Byron's lighter productions, as Hyperion to a Satyr. 
We find the one expending his powers on Turkish 
Tales and other matters of beautiful but ephemeral in- 
terest, whilst the other has enriched the literature of his 
native country with exquisite imitations of the classical 
poets of antiquity. We cannot call them translations, 
for Horace is untranslatable ; but he was shewing 
Englishmen how Horace would have written, had he 
been born on the banks of Thames, instead of Tiber. 
We may add that Byron attempted, in a very careless 
manner, to enter the same field ; his hints from Horace, 
however, are a very indifferent performance, and quite 
unworthy of his genius and reputation. 

On a subject of such deep and lively interest, it is 
evident that observations of a similar nature to these 
might be multiplied until the present essay should be 
extended to almost any length. Still it appears that 
enough has now been said to convey our individual 
views upon the subject which has been proposed, and 
to extend this little work would be to the full as likely 
to injure as to improve it. The writer will, therefore. 
bring it to an immediate conclusion. 



46 AN ESSAY ON THE 

We shall, therefore, close the present essay with the 
following observation : that it has been our study in its 
composition and arrangement to treat the question fair- 
ly and impartially ; but at the same time with boldness 
and originality. It is not a subject upon which prejudice 
can exactly interpose to warp our judgment — nor passion 
to mislead our taste. We have no particular love for the 
one poet, nor animosity against the other. Where we 
have found any thing to admire, it has always been ac- 
companied by pleasure ; and wherever we have been com- 
pelled to censure, it has always been a matter of regret. 
If, therefore, our opinions are erroneous, it has un- 
doubtedly been an error of taste and judgment — by no 
means one induced by prejudice or partiality ; on the 
contrary we love and admire the beauties of each, and 
freely confess a deep and lasting debt of gratitude to 
both, for many agreeable hours of interesting study and 
occupation. The reasons upon which our opinion hath ' 
been founded are before our readers, and they will 
judge for themselves to what degree of weight they are 
entitled. 

In conceding, however, the palm of superior merit 
unto Pope, we confess that we do it with a slight touch 
of unwillingness. We have more in common with 
Lord Byron than we can possibly have with one who 
flourished a century ago ; yet truth and justice demand 
a sincere and candid verdict, and we are constrained to 
admit that the poetical fame of Lord Byron is disfigur- 



POETRY OF POPE AND BYRON. 47 

ed with so many blemishes, the fruits of carelessness and 
indifference, no less than want of principle and critical 
judgment, that when he is placed in the same parallel 
with the lofty genius and polished taste of Pope, it must 
ever be to his disadvantage. 



SIR GODFREY'S END. 



TO 

MRS. VERELST, 

OF ASTON HALL, IN THE COUNTY OF YORK, 

THIS BALLAD, 

IN IMITATION OF THE GERMAN, 
13 RESPECTFULLY INSCRIBED. 



SIR GODFREY'S END. 

A BALLAD. 



Sir Godfrey was a hunter fell, 
And oft when morning broke, 

A lusty note his horn would sound, 
Beneath the greenwood oak. 

Sir Godfrey was a moody man, 

But seldom seen to smile ; 
And when he laughed, his followers all 

Would tremble still the while. 

For those who knew Sir Godfrey long, 
And read his looks with skill, 

That laugh so wild had ever known 
The harbinger of ill I 



54? sir Godfrey's end. 

Sir Godfrey was no longer young*, 

Full fifty winters frost 
Had bleached his hair : his darksome brow 

Its raven curls had lost. 

Why did Sir Godfrey in the chase, 

Each leisure day employ ? 
Why was it now the stag, or boar 

To hunt, his only joy ? 

Why did he still with all — and more 

Than all the fire of youth, 
Pursue the chase from morn till night ? 

Our lay shall tell in sooth. 

Sir Godfrey was a man of guilt, 

A man of deep remorse ; 
To fly from thoughts that rack'd his breast, 

He gat him on his horse. 

With hounds the quarry still pursued, 
Till evening's shades grew dim, 

Because, at home, his guilty thoughts 
As fiercely followed him. 

Sir Godfrey's was a widow'd bed, 

So retribution dealt ! 
Sir Godfrey's children all were dead, 

A judgment, as he felt I 



sir Godfrey's end. 55 

And now he sought but to escape 

From torments of the soul ; 
His days he spent in sylvan sport, 

His evenings o'er the bowl. 

But care — remorse would still intrude, 

Sir Godfrey's joys to ban ; 
Despite of all his wealth, the knight 

Was still a wretched man. 

It chanced upon a winter's day, 

And at the break of dawn, 
Sir Godfrey pranced across the waste, 
* And blew his bugle horn, 

He blew, what seemed a blithsome blast, 

His brow grew dark and stern, 
For echoing woods a dismal note 

Unto that blast return. 

It seemed, at once, in every heart 

Sank that funereal sound ; 
An anxious, darkly boding look 

Was pass'd in silence round ! 

Again the knight a blast hath blown, 

? T is borne upon the breeze : 
A long, deep, solemn, booming swell, 

Returns from yonder trees ! 



56 sir Godfrey's end. 

He did not sound that horn again, 

His spirit sank subdued ; 
When started up a gallant stag — 

Sir Godfrey loud halloo'd ! 

Away, away, o'er hill and dale, 
Flew stag, and hound, and horse ; 

No pause or check — no stream or rock, 
Impede their headlong course ! 

The Knight that day a dappled grey, 

A gallant steed bestrid ; 
Fleet as the wind left all behind, 

He on, and onward rid. 

Yet stag and hound, with headlong speed, 

Still on, and onward flew ; 
Sir Godfrey scarce — do all his best — 

Might keep the chase in view. 

At length unto the hills he came, 

Sir Godfrey gazed around ; 
He paused to breathe his panting steed, 

He saw, nor stag, nor hound. 

Once more a lusty blast he blew, 
He listened — hark ! That swell 

Returns — that same funereal note 
His spirit seems to quell ! 



sir Godfrey's end. 57 

But see — a distant view is caught, 

His hounds are on the cry : 
Once more he spurr'd the willing steed, 

Once more he strain'd his eye. 

He further pushed into the wilds, 

And still Sir Godfrey knew 
The distance from his lofty halls 

Still long, and longer grew. 

He was not, as he deemed, alone, 

For clattering on his track 
Another rider followed close — 

Cloak, plume, and steed were black. 

Where'er Sir Godfrey bent his course, 

The stranger still pursued, 
And, when, perforce, the Knight hath paus'd, 

Close on his quarter stood. 

" Sir Stranger," thus Sir Godfrey spake, 

" Of hound I see no sign — 
My chase is o'er" — a solemn voice 

Replies, " and so is mine !" 

Sir Godfrey turned: suspicion still 

In guilty bosom sways ; 
He looked upon the stranger's mien, 

Who shrank not from his gaze. 
c 2 



58 sir Godfrey's end. 

" I would," again the Knight rejoin'd, 
" My hounds were here, at call ; 

Wild are the ways, and short the days, 
And distant is my hall." 

Again the plumed stranger spake, 

In solemn tone and low ; 
" Before we part, a shorter way, 

Sir Godfrey, thou shalt know !" 

With restless gaze the Knight replied, 

Yet hid his secret fear : 
" Show me that way, my comrade gay, 

And thou shalt try my cheer." 

" That cheer I would be loth to share, 
Which thou this night wilt gain ; 

We are alone — a long account 
Hath run betwixt us twain. 

" And thy next treat, where maggots meet, 

To revel on the dead ! 
Thou churl, and recreant traitor, base," 

The sable s f ranger said. 

Sir Godfrey started, " Ha !— alone— 

The man of earthly mould 
Ne'er spake such words to me, and lived ! 

Thy name and tale unfold," 



SIR GODFREY'S END. 59 

" Thou liest, caitiff Knight, for here 

Is one, whose name to thee 
A thousand trembling fears shall bring ! 

Aye — gaze thy fill on me." 

Sir Godfrey gazed — his searching eye 

Did every feature trace ; 
He could not recognize a foe, 

In that dark stranger's face. 

" Thou dost not know me ? ha ! my name, 

Perchance may strike thine ear ; 
Thy kinsman, Hubert, was not he 

In youth a comrade dear ? 

" Villain !" he thunder'd on — " behold ! 

In me his outlaw'd son ; 
And tremble whilst thy memory cites 

The deeds that thou hast done ! 

" Each faculty that heaven bestow'd 

On thee, hath been for ill : 
Yet, memory was not given in vain — 

Thy crimes will haunt thee still ! 

" A long, long register'd account 

Of injuries, I now 
Must reckon for, base wretch, with thee — 

Thou shalt not hide thy brow I 



60 sir Godfrey's end. 

" Yes, traitor to the name of friend! 

My parent thou deceiv'd ; 
Murder'd him, unsuspecting, and 

His babes of all bereav'd ! 

" My sister, too — false wretch — her youth 

And innocence betrayed : 
Her outcast form by stranger's hands 

Within the grave was laid ! 

" Myself, to death consign'd, the fiend 

Who tempted thee to ill : 
Saved me a certain instrument, 

Thy crimes to punish still ! 

" A foreign breeze hath cool'd my cheek, 
A foreign sun hath burn'd ; 

And here, my deep revenge to take, 
Behold me — thus return'd ! 

" The traitor villain, bribed to slay, 

Me bore to distant climes ; 
Nurst me in blood, and war, and strife, 

And bred me up in crimes. 

u He joined, in yonder western world, 

A fierce and pirate band ; 
And rose — as men in such a trade 

Must rise, to high command. 



sir Godfrey's end. 61 

" He taught me all a youth could need, 

To win the wild applause 
Of those who waged a common war, 

'Gainst every nation's laws. 

" He dying, all he knew disclosed, 

Tho' more remain'd behind ! 
My sister's fate he could not tell, 

Thou guardian, faithful ! kind ! 

" No warrior yet, could ever stand, 

Before this trusty blade : 
Haste, caitiff, bare thy recreant brand, 

The stake must now be play'd." 

" Rest, rest," the guilty traitor cried, 

" And thou shalt be my heir ; 
Low at thy feet behold thy foe — 

As thou art valiant, spare !" 

" Rise, coward, rise ! and guard thy life, 

For duly I have sworn, 
Three times this steel thy heart shall pierce — . 

Unless it be of stone ! 

" Once for my father — aye, and once 

For my poor sister's woes ; 
Once for myself — then rise perforce, 

And for no infant's blows. 



62 sir Godfrey's end. 

" Rise — or I spurn thee with my foot," 

But still the guilty knelt ; 
" No tears or prayers believe me here, 

The Buccaneer will melt !" 

" It is not out of fear, I kneel, 
Thou deeply injured youth ; 

But that I fain would do thee right, 
I would in holy truth ! 

" If thou will slay me, slay me thus, 

Resistance make I none : 
Yet what the better wilt thou be, 

When I am dead and gone ?" 

" What better ? I shall have revenge, 
No bribe my wrath shall stay; 

My father's blood — my sister's woes, 
Will chide e'en this delay !" 

Sir Godfrey rose, and bared his blade, 

" No more is mine to give ; 
My crimes confess'd — atonement made — 

Or proffer'd, I will live. 

" So this good sword, and mine old arm, 
Can make my battle good ;" 

The blades were cross'd — one instant, and 
The Buccaneer's drew blood. 



sir Godfrey's end. 63 

Sir Godfrey felt it — cautious now 

The blows he sought to shun ; 
But fierce the youthful champion prest, 

Sir Godfrey's glass was run ! 

The sword flew from his powerless grasp, 

Unarmed Sir Godfrey stood ; 
Prest furious on the raging foe, 

Who thirsted still for blood. 

His blade a reverend form hath turned, 

A silver bearded sage, 
Who at the clash of steel, hard by, 

Had left his hermitage. 

He threw his aged form between — 

" Forbear, my son," he cries ; 
" Father stand off," the hasty youth 

In headlong rage replies — 

" Thou know'st not him for whom thou plead'st, 

But if thine Order all 
Should bid me spare this traitor's blood, 

I would not heed the call ! 

" There is but one sole voice, alone — 

In earth, or heaven, or hell, 
Should stay my sword." — " Thy father's. Pause — 

He bids." The weapon fell ! 



64- sir Godfrey's end. 

" He bids thee sheath thy conquering blade, 

No vision from the grave ; 
He comes — it is by heaven's decree, 

I trust — two souls to save ! 

" Sir Godfrey, see thy victim here ! 

Behold thy friend betrayed ! 
Not murder'd as thou long hast deem'd — 

My son, put up thy blade. 

" What can'st thou say ? a witness I, 

To all thy deep remorse ; 
And, for my son, I now, at once, 

Forbid his rage's course. 

r 

" And thou shalt join thy prayers with mine, 

To him whose power avails : 
To pardon deeds, that weigh like thine, 

Within his awful scales !" 

It would have moved a heart of stone, 

To see that ancient chief : 
He groan'd in bitterness — a flood 

Of tears have brought relief ! 

" Let me/' said he, " as best I may 

Atone for all my crimes, 
This youth shall have my wealth, and lands — 

My tale to other times 



sir Godfrey's end. 65 

" May still, to cruel, greedy men, 

An awful lesson tell ! 
And thou, much injured Hubert, thou 

To me should'st yield thy cell ! 

" But that I feel, the vengeful steel 

Hath closed my wretched days ; 
A warning I, to those who fain 

Would thrive by wicked ways !" 

The raging victor stands subdued, 

A wond'rous change he felt ; 
At length he threw away his sword — 

And to his parent knelt. 

Such is the tale our legend tells, 

Then, gentle reader, heed ; 
Such is the lesson, guilt, and shame. 

To other days may read ! 



A PARALLEL 

NOT AFTER THE MANNER OF PLUTARCH, 
BETWEEN 

ESTHER, THE JEWESS, 

AND 

ANNA BOLEYN. 



TO 

ROBERT PRICKETT, 

OF HARLEY STREET, LONDON, 

AND OF 

OCTON LODGE, IN THE COUNTY OF YORK, ESQUIRE, 

THIS ESSAY 

IS INSCRIBED AS A TESTIMONIAL OF 
RESPECT AND GRATITUDE. 



A PARALLEL 



ESTHER, THE JEWESS, AND ANNA BOLEYN. 



When we consider that the materials of history are 
always the same,, in every age and country ; and that 
these materials are, nevertheless of so numerous, and 
of so mixed a character, that they cannot be expected 
to form exactly the same combination twice : when 
we consider this, we shall have no reason to think it 
strange, that " parallels" should occur, both between 
historical events, and between historical personages. 
Parallels, which present a certain degree of resem- 
blance ; and yet are, also, in other respects, distinct 
and even different. Every one has, doubtless, seen 
that beautiful and curious instrument, the kaleidoscope ; 



72 ESTHER, THE JEWESS, 

they are, therefore, aware, that every motion, every 
agitation, throws the elements of which its pictures 
are composed into some new figure — some fresh com- 
bination. There is a general resemblance amongst all 
of these ; and still, upon a calculation, it will appear 
next to impossible that any two should ever be exactly 
alike. Thus it is, also, with the materials of history. 

In the course of worldly events, circumstances of a 
similar nature are certain to arise. These will, pro- 
bably, call into action remarkable persons : these per- 
sons, again, having occasionally a similar part to per- 
form, will, to a certain extent, act in a very similar 
manner. Should their character and disposition be 
congenial, we may naturally expect a very close re- 
semblance — and, thus, a parallel in history is formed. 

But again, climate, habit, custom, education, and 
other causes, will, universally, tend to stamp a dis- 
tinctive character upon each of any two periods, as 
well as upon those who take a part in each. No two 
persons, perhaps, in any complicated position, ever 
thought or acted exactly in the same manner : in every 
historical parallel, therefore, we shall always find 
features of resemblance ; and there must always be 
other features that stamp upon them a distinctive cha- 
racter. We have, however, a few more hints, if we 
may so call them, to offer upon the subject of historical 
parallels : and which will be best conveyed, perhaps, 
by one or two examples. 



AND ANNA BOLEYN. 73 

In the first of those presented by Plutarch, that 
between Theseus and Romulus, we perceive that these 
two heroes had a very similar part to perform upon the 
stage of life — namely, to reduce a disorderly rabble 
into a regular community, by the introduction of a 
military discipline : which, indeed, was what Nimrod 
had probably done before, on a more extended scale, 
in the plains of Asia. Now to perform this character, 
would require certain qualities — such as a strong mind, 
and a strong body ; but we detect no more indivi- 
duality, here, than in the " Fortem Gyan, fortemque 
Cloanthum" of Virgil. These, however, after all, are 
rather traditionary, than historical personages ; and 
the parallel, therefore, has but little interest. It con- 
cerns only their respective parts in the drama in which 
each was called upon to perform. 

Alexander and Caesar, again, were undoubtedly great 
men — as great men are estimated in history. Both 
were conquerors — both had great qualities, extended 
views, a decided taste and love for literature ; Caesar 
having written a most valuable work himself, and 
Alexander having not only doated upon Homer, but 
having enabled his preceptor, Aristotle, to compose an 
almost perfect work on Natural History. Both had a 
perfect command over very powerful means ; they 
ran a career, too, something alike, since each revolu- 
tionized the world ; and both died by the hands of their 
respective friends — both having become too great for 



74} ESTHER, THE JEWESS, 

those with whom they had to live. Yet, after all is 
said, there is no very close resemblance between the 
two ; because the men were of an entirely distinct 
character, as men ; and, therefore, this parallel also 
will never be very striking. 

Again, Charles the Twelfth of Sweden professedly 
imitated Alexander ; and, we must confess, he labour- 
ed strenuously in his pursuit. Charles the Twelfth, 
however, had a mind of a much lower order : 

" He left the name at which the world grew pale, 
To point a moral, or adorn a tale !" 

but he left nothing more. The world, after his death, 
went on exactly as if he had never been : whilst, by 
the single fact of his having founded Alexandria, and 
changed thereby, entirely, the channel of Eastern com- 
merce, the Macedonian conqueror extended his own 
influence on the affairs of the world, for centuries 
beyond his death. 

The points of resemblance between our own proper 
hero of the present day, Wellington, and the great 
Duke of Marlborough are so close, that an interesting 
parallel may be easily accomplished by a comparison of 
their respective histories. But if we ourselves had to 
select a parallel for the living hero, making a proper 
allowance where it is obviously necessary, we should 
pitch upon the name of Gustavus Adolphus. We are 
certainly of opinion, that had Wellington been equally 



AND ANNA BOLEYN. 75 

ascetic, it would have been remarkably exact. In the 
Swedish monarch, the force of his religious and moral 
habits was decidedly a characteristic : whereas, we are 
not aware that, in those respects, the living hero is re- 
markable for any extreme whatever. We may, how- 
ever, rejoice, that in one respect, the parallel is not 
more exact than we find it. Gustavus fell at Lutzen, 
while Wellington is, fortunately still alive, and able 
" to do the state some service." 

Again, if we were to take the characters of the prophet 
Moses, and the impostor Mahomet, we should find a 
case of what we may term an historical contrast. In 
the same climate, and amongst people who have 
scarcely changed their habits in the lapse of some 
thousands of years, each undertook nearly the same 
work, or office. The contrast is wrought by the severe 
uncompromising truth of the one, compared with the 
unscrupulous ingenuity of the other. 

Thus much for our own idea of that in which an 
hi storical parallel consists : we trust these few words 
will suffice to explain the matter to those who stand in 
need of explanation ; and that they will, also, convey 
the precise view we take of the matter to those who 
need it not. 

We will next venture to relate how and where it was, 
that the thought of the present essay first presented 
itself to our mind — for Alison observes that one of 



76 ESTHER, THE JEWESS, 

the chief pleasures of reading is when you can, as it 
were, enter a writer's head, and observe the train of 
his ideas. At a leisure moment, we chanced to take 
up a magazine : we opened it, and were interrupted 
before we got at all into the thread of the critical 
argument; but there was mention made of Queen 
Vashti, and on this it was our hap to fall. Now, 
from childhood, we had always taken leave to regard 
this lady as one who had been unworthily treated ; but 
it was the first time we had ever seen her part taken 
by any other person. The Scripture history which our 
excellent mother put into our own hand, as one of our 
earliest books, painted Vashti only as a disobedient 
wife — possibly we might, on the score of disobedience, 
have a fellow-feeling — thus, however, it was : in our 
infantile independence we were never able to compre- 
hend what particular sin poor Vashti had been guilty 
of, in refusing to comply with the strange request of 
her besotted husband — a request so much at variance 
with Eastern habits and customs. 

We entertain the same opinion in great measure 
still. What ! if a husband should happen — and it is 
what too frequently does happen — to behave like a 
knave, or a fool, is the wife bound to appear in the 
same character also ? It is, certainly, no part of our 
design to encourage disobedience in those who ought 
to " love, honour, and obey." Yet we should like to 
have this question answered before we condemn the, 



AND ANNA BOLEYN. 77 

to our notion — interesting, and unfortunate Queen 
Vashti. 

The history, however, of this unhappy princess is too 
slender a thread to support even so trifling a work as 
the present essay ; otherwise, the comparison between 
Vashti and Catharine of Arragon, was extremely 
obvious. The successful rivals, therefore, of these 
innocent and ill-used ladies, next occurred to us ; and 
we instantly resolved to enter upon the parallel as 
soon as we should find ourselves at leisure. How the 
preceding and very sage remarks, on history in gene- 
ral, found their way into our paper we can scarcely ex- 
plain. No matter — there they are. 

The parallel, therefore, and we must make our best 
of it, fell to our lot between Esther, the Jewess, and 
Anna Boleyn, one of the murdered wives of that 
monster in English history, for whom it would, indeed, 
be well if all the events of his reign had been contain- 
ed in that couplet — the best abridgment of history 
extant — in which the half century of his father's rule, 
and his own is entirely comprised, viz. 

" Harry the Seventh in fame grew big, 

And Harry the Eighth was as fat as a pig." 

We shall now proceed to the immediate subject of 
our essay : but we must first observe, that the histories 
of these two lovely queens, although their beauty, 
accomplishments, and endearing qualities wrought that 



8/ ESTHER, THE JEWESS, 

which a hundred thousand swords would have failed in 
achieving, will, nevertheless, present interesting, ra- 
ther than brilliant features. 

If our pen were accustomed to run wild in rhapso- 
dies, we might here discourse most eloquently in praise 
of the fair sex generally and universally. But really, 
after five thousand poets, and at least fifty thousand 
prosaics have done the same thing already — what can 
possibly remain to be said upon the subject, which has 
not been better said, by some one or other of that num- 
ber beforetime ? We shall, therefore, say no more in 
eulogy of the sex in general, however tempting the 
subject, than will naturally arise from a review of the 
lives and history of two of its loveliest and most in- 
teresting members. 

Whatever antiquaries and chronologists may please 
to say, who always take a delight in puzzling them- 
selves and others — whatever they may say, we are 
contented to believe with Prideaux and Josephus, that 
the Ahasuerus of Scripture is one and the same with 
the Artaxerxes Longimanus of history. It will only 
be necessary to observe, that the monarch was very 
young when the disgrace of Vashti occurred. True, 
this is but an indifferent excuse at best ; such as it is, 
however, let us concede to him the full benefit which 
it confers : we are told, that it fell out only in the 
third year of his reign. Again, we are told, that the 
king was intoxicated, which is even a worse excuse than 



AND ANNA BOLEYN. 79 

the former ; but we must not forget, that whatever a 
Persian king did, when he happened to be drunk, their 
sapient custom forbade him from undoing when he 
became sober. No law could ever be repealed, and 
it is curious to observe, the absurdities in which this 
principle involved them. 

In the third year of his reign, Ahasuerus made a 
very splendid feast : and in this, as he is no favourite 
with us, we wish to do him what is simply an act of 
justice. In the proclamation of his festival, there does 
appear to have been one piece of, undoubtedly, com- 
mon sense. The king ordained that none of his guests 
should be compelled to drink more than he liked ! 
At what rate the royal example proceeded we can- 
not accurately determine ; yet it would seem, that it 
was not until the seventh day of the festival, that 
Ahasuerus "reached the climax of his folly and absurd- 
ity. At that time, in opposition to the whole character 
of Eastern manners and customs, he insisted that his 
beautiful wife should come down in all her royal 
splendour to edify his intoxicated guests with a view 
of her superlative charms. Vashti, to the credit, as 
we persist in thinking, of her character, refused ; and 
thus incurred the anger of those who accused her in 
their folly, and condemned her in the madness of their 
intoxication. 

The monarch, we are told, took counsel of his wise 
men upon this notable occasion, and it is fortunate 



80 ESTHER, THE JEWESS, 

that we are informed they bore this title, for we should 
never have guessed it from the decision before us : 
the wise men voted that, if an example were not made 
of Vashti, there was an end, at once, of all domestic 
government in Persia ! If she were allowed to disobey 
her royal husband, even in a reasonable matter, the 
good people, his subjects, would never enjoy any peace 
in their own houses as long as they lived. Count 
Oxenstiern might well observe, how little sense it requir- 
ed to govern a country ; but if ever a case of " much 
ado about nothing" occurred in the history of any peo- 
ple, it was undoubtedly this. In the sequel, however, 
if we look to its important consequences, we may 
compare it to the little cloud of the prophet Elijah 
arising out of the sea, " like a man's hand." 

The character of Esther is very slightly sketched in 
the book of Scripture that bears her name. There is 
scarcely a syllable of direct eulogium in its chapters, 
and, consequently, it is from a narration of facts only 
we arrive at the opinion we are enabled to form of her 
amiable disposition, the strength of her mind, and the 
correctness of her principles. Of the beauty of her 
person, also, the description is brief and general ; but 
it cannot be necessary for us to insist on her superi- 
ority in this respect, inasmuch as it is known that she 
was surpassingly beautiful, even amongst Jewesses — a 
race where female beauty, of the highest order, is by no 
means uncommon : and, moreover, that when all the 



AND ANNA BOLEYN. 81 

fairest flowers of female loveliness had been culled 
through an extensive empire, and assembled together, 
the Jewish maid of Susa bore away the prize from all 
the rest. 

Of her goodness, too, we have abundant and indis- 
putable proofs. Esther had been left an orphan, and 
was brought up by her excellent and high-minded re- 
lative, Mordecai, from whom she imbibed early lessons 
of piety and virtue : of these lessons she never lost 
sight in the after-period of her life. When raised to 
the most exalted rank, she still remained the same 
humble and unaffected creature which the care and 
attention of her uncle had formed, whilst she was yet 
in that lowly condition. 

There is a beautiful simplicity in the scriptural ac- 
count of Esther which is inimitable. " She had neither 
father nor mother ; and the maid was fair and beauti- 
ful, whom Mordecai, when her father and mother were 
dead, took for his own daughter." Such, truly, in duty 
and obedience, did she ever continue, even although the 
stability of her character and principles was tried by 
that severest of all tests — an almost unexampled pros- 
perity and exaltation. 

In the first place, when taken into the king's house, 
Esther gained the esteem and favour of every person. 
She was a perfect stranger, " for Mordecai had 
charged her, that she should not show her nation and 

her kindred," Nevertheless, we are told, that the 
d 2 



82 ESTHER, THE JEWESS, 

chamberlain preferred the beautiful and modest Esther 
to the very best apartments ; thereby anticipating the 
decision of the monarch, whose love and favour she so 
shortly afterwards obtained. When we consider the 
scorn with which the Jews were always regarded by 
every barbarian nation, the advice of Mordecai will 
appear to be grounded upon the truest wisdom and 
discretion. 

Nevertheless, it entailed trouble and uneasiness upon 
that excellent man himself: he could not enquire 
openly after the health of his niece ; and we need not 
add, that any communication with her honoured re- 
lative, would have instantly betrayed her secret. We 
have a very touching picture of Mordecai's anxiety at 
the time, when he was obliged to content himself with 
the news he could accidently gather concerning his 
dear niece's welfare. " He walked every day before 
the court of the women's house, to know how Esther 
did." She, therefore, saw her uncle daily at a distance ; 
and we may so far trust her female ingenuity, as to 
make no doubt whatever but Esther would convey, at 
least by signal, some token of her health and welfare 
to the anxious Mordecai. 

Various maidens were introduced to the king ; but 
none did he deem worthy of the distinction which had 
been so unjustly taken away from the banished Vashti. 
It would seem that these fair candidates for the royal 
favour neglected nothing which the arcana of female 



AND ANNA BOLEYN. 83 

art and blandishments could suggest. " Whatsoever 
she desired/' says the 13th ver. of the 2d chap. " was 
given her to go into the king's house," and this she re- 
tained upon her return ; but, unless particularly called 
for, they saw the king no more. Doubtless, there were 
many palpitating hearts awaiting that summons ; but 
we are not told that any one was so distinguished, 
until Esther — lovely in her simplicity — resplendent in 
her beauty, " came, and saw, and conquered !" She 
wasted not a thought upon art or ornament ; but 
allowed them to dress her exactly as they pleased. 
She, however, was one — 

" Who made her victory sure, 
One who to every look joined every lure ; 
Thro' whom all beauty's beams concentred pass, 
Dazzling and warm — as through love's burning glass." 

" The king loved Esther." This is the brief, though 
full expression of the sacred narrative. She was in- 
stantly invested with all the dignities which, since the 
disgrace of Vashti, had been in abeyance. Still, in 
her exaltation, Esther was unchanged. Prosperity, 
the most seducing of all temptations, did not corrupt 
her pure and pious heart. " Esther," says the 20th 
verse, " did the commandment of Mordecai, like as 
when she was brought up with him." She remembered 
the instructions, as well as the instructor of her youth : 
he who had preserved her for her present rank, and 
even qualified her to adorn it. Esther, therefore, still 



84 ESTHER, THE JEWESS, 

concealed her family and nation, even at the sacrifice 
it must necessarily have cost her. We may imagine 
the feelings of Mordecai, perhaps, when there was only 
one being (his God), unto whom he dared trust himself 
with their expression ! But who would be so rash as 
to venture an attempt at their description ? 

From this time, however, there was no longer that 
entire exclusion from every species of intercourse : for 
there is repeated mention in the history, of a faithful 
servant of the queen, who carried messages to and 
from her uncle. At this time, also, Mordecai dis- 
covered a deadly conspiracy against the king's life. 
He made it known to Esther, and she, in her uncle's 
name, had it conveyed to her lord himself. The 
matter was duly investigated, and the name of Mor- 
decai was put down in the royal archives as worthy of 
honour and reward. These, however, were providen- 
tially deferred until a subsequent period. 

The wicked Haman comes now upon the stage. He 
was an Amalekite, and, therefore, an hereditary foe to 
Israel. It is not necessary to relate every step in the 
prosecution of his villiany ; but two or three points it 
will be proper to mention, because they may not strike 
upon a very superficial reading. When Haman 
formed his design of destroying all the Jews, by a 
decree of the sovereign himself, he set his diviners, 
according to their superstitious custom, to fix upon a 
propitious day. But unfortunately for him, their di- 



AND ANNA BOLEYN. 85 

vinations were guided by a still superior power, and 
every day was pronounced inauspicious, until the 13th 
day of the 12th month of that year. Thus long" was 
it, after Haman had carried his point, before he might 
venture to put it into execution — that is to say, con- 
sistently with his own heathenish and superstitious 
notions of good fortune. 

There is, also, another point, characteristic of the 
levity natural to such despotic proceedings. Haman 
proposed this remarkably modest and reasonable mea- 
sure, viz. that all the Jews should be exterminated ; and 
Ahasuerus instantly consented without any reluctance 
or remorse ! The day was named in the decree, the 
13th of the month Adar, and it is added, that the in- 
habitants of the capital were much troubled about the 
matter. The conclusion is, however, admirable. " The 
King and Haman sat down to drink ;" public affairs 
might go on as chance directed, provided the monarch 
only enjoyed his bowl ! 

But at this time the royal toper appears to have 
been less attentive to his spouse than heretofore : he 
had been married to Esther, probably, seven years ; 
and, perhaps, his bottle, under Haman's management, 
had become the greater attraction. He had not seen 
or sent to Esther for a period of thirty days, when 
these ill tidings reached her. The queen, however, 
had a copy of the bloody decree presented by the hand 
of her faithful servant ; and, in answer, she explained 



86 ESTHER, THE JEWESS, 

to Mordecai, the perilous nature of her own situation. 
By the absurd laws of this brutal and besotted country, 
Esther, herself, would have incurred the penalty of 
death had she intruded, unbidden, into her lord's apart- 
ments, which were in the inner court of the palace. 

But her uncle was firm and unshaken. His own, 
and his niece's exaltation were as nothing, when weigh- 
ed against the safety of his nation. He reminded 
Esther, that in her were not reposed his only hopes. 
It was impossible to say that she had not been raised 
up for this very occasion ; but, whether so or not, the 
Almighty was still able to preserve his people. The 
very rank of Esther, therefore, only rendered it more 
imperative on her to hazard her life for the preserva- 
tion of her countrymen. The reply of Esther is one of 
the very grandest things in history. " Go," was her 
message, " gather together all the Jews that are in 
Shushan — and fast ye for me three days. I and my 
maidens will fast, likewise : so will I go in unto the 
king, which is not according to the law — and if I 
perish, I perish!" The calm and devout courage — 
the holy and deliberate fortitude of this reply, cannot 
have many examples in the history of the world. 

Accordingly, at the time, she went — and happily 
he was sober ! The king saw instantly that some great 
matter affected her ; and, stretching out his sceptre on 
the instant, extended to Esther a pardon for this peril- 
ous intrusion. He asked her, kindly, for her petition ; 



AND ANNA BOLEYN. 87 

but the queen was too prudent, and the matter of too 
much importance to be hastily hazarded. She en- 
deavoured at once to interest the king still more 
deeply, by rousing his curiosity ; and tried her influence 
before she exerted her full power upon him. How 
could she tell what had happened in the last thirty days 
to shake her interest ? She, likewise, knew his habits, 
and secured him to a banquet of her own providing, 
doubtless, with a view to secure his sobriety for the 
great occasion. That he was sober, is evident, for that 
night he read over the annals of his reign, and remem- 
bered the services of Mordecai, even at this providen- 
tial moment. 

The blessing of the Almighty was, however, with 
the innocence, the wisdom, and the beauty of Esther. 
Her people were saved, and Haman perished in his 
own snares ! In conclusion, it will only be necessary 
to say, since all eulogium upon her must be unnecessary, 
that the authenticity of this narrative is placed beyond 
all doubt by two circumstances : — One, the admission 
of the story into the sacred books of the Jews, with 
particular respect and veneration — as written, probably, 
by Mordecai himself; and secondly, by the Jewish 
festival of Purim, or the feast of Lots, which runs up, 
by unbroken custom, to the very time in question ; 
and it is still celebrated on the 13th day of that same 
month, on which the divination by lot fell according 
to the astrologers of Haman. 



88 ESTHER, THE JEWESS, 

It is now time for us to turn our attention towards 
the fair Englishwoman, whose beauty and accom- 
plishments exerted so great and direct an influence 
on the destinies of her own country. From the posi- 
tion she occupied, at a period when party spirit was 
aggravated by religious zeal, it is not at all surprising 
if her character was assailed with great malevolence ; 
nor, again, that she should have been defended with 
equally as much zeal ; and, from the nature of the case, 
with a little more charity. Anna Boleyn, however, is 
entitled to the same justice as all other persons ; and if 
we include nothing in our verdict, but what her enemies 
have been able to prove against her, she will be ac- 
quitted from all guilt, and will appear to have been 
one of the most virtuous, amiable, and charming cha- 
racters in the bright range of female biography — in 
the bright annals of female excellence. 

If her guilt, or innocence, as to the offences laid to 
her charge, were the matter at issue, we would not fear 
the result of any encounter, and would ourselves ven- 
ture to break a lance (i. e. to spoil a goose quill) on 
her behalf with any one alive. For, undoubtedly, Dr. 
Lingard has brought every possible authority to bear 
upon the prosecutor's side, and has entirely failed of 
proof. The distance of time, and the want of evidence, 
either way — as well as the constant difficulty, in every 
case, of proving a negative — prevent our knowing 
exactly how the king and this fair object of his love, 



AND ANNA BOLEYN. 89 

lived during those two or three last years, that the 
papal procrastination put off the divorce. The pre- 
sumption, however, is much in favour of the fair Anna, 
from her undoubted propriety up to a certain definite 
period, extending- to some years of their courtship ; 
again, from the king's notorious fickleness ; and, more 
than all, as respects Dr. Lingard's positive assertion 
(of concubinage) from the lady having had no children 
before our famous maiden queen. At all events we 
may ask, if Anna Boleyn ought to be condemned in 
the absence of any direct evidence against her ? That 
her foes were not very scrupulous — and, therefore, that 
their testimony is rather more than suspicious — will 
hardly be denied by any unprejudiced person. 

Anna Boleyn was born, as we are told, in the year 
1507, and was, therefore, fifteen or sixteen years 
younger than her royal husband. Though not of noble 
birth, her parents had great interest at court, where 
her father had constant employment; and, at seven 
years old, she was nominally a maid of honour to the 
English princess, who married Louis the Twelfth, the 
aged king of France. Dr. Lingard, whose authority 
is not unimpeached, asserts, on the sole authority of 
Cardinal Pole (one still more dubious), that her elder 
sister Mary had been the king's mistress at an earlier 
period. Doubtless this is a suspicious testimony ; in 
fact, whilst unconfirmed, it is no testimony at all. It is, 
however, amusing to find the Doctor, after reiterat- 



90 ESTHER, THE JEWESS, 

ing Cardinal Pole's evidence, observing, that every 
doubt must yield to such repeated testimony: just as 
if the repeated testimony of the same evidence were 
any additional authority. 

We may well suppose the young lady to have gone 
into France rather for her education, than for any real 
services she could render unto her Royal mistress at so 
tender an age. However the fact of her having been 
educated in France is material, inasmuch as it throws 
a light upon the only part of Anna Boleyn's character 
that was ever really censurable. She was a little 
too free with her servants, and thus afforded an open- 
ing for that wedge of perjury and injustice which 
eventually wrought the ruin, and effected the murder of 
this illustrious victim. This was, however, in France the 
custom of the country ; and, with one exception, all of 
those who were mentioned on her trial as objects of her 
favour, were as well born as herself; nor was there any 
shadow of guilt in her conduct. The exception re- 
ferred merely to a musician, and who was only once in 
her apartment in his professional capacity, and before 
her other servants. Anna Boleyn, we ought to re- 
member, was not born a princess, and those parties 
had formerly been her familiars ; therefore, after all, it 
was at the worst, only an amiable weakness. It is 
not quite clear whether she returned in 1522 or 1525, 
but the probability is in favour of the former date, 
because her return was some way connected with the 
French war which began in 1522. 



AND ANNA BOLEYN. 91 

However, in 1525, she was the beauty of the day, 
and reigned supreme over many admirers. Of these, 
we are told, Lord Percy was the favoured swain, when 
Harry unhappily interfered, for he was already in 
love with his fair subject. Lord Percy is stated to have 
been married to a daughter of the Earl of Shrewsbury, 
in the life-time of his father, who died in 1526, and, 
therefore, the declaration of Harry's attachment could 
not be later than this period. They (the King and 
Anna Boleyn) were not married of six years after. 
The monarch's unlawful addresses were, however, re- 
jected by this young maiden of nineteen, and he was 
kept at an awful distance. About midsummer, 1527, 
he wrote a doleful love letter to Anna, in which he 
states that he had loved her five years at that time. 
In the latter end of this year (1527) the divorce first 
suggested itself: if the King is to be believed, it was 
his own idea, and first mentioned to the Bishop of 
Tarbes, a Frenchman, who encouraged him to proceed. 
On the first application to the Pope, the name of 
Anna Boleyn was supposed to be connected with the 
business, and Pope Clement fancying, naturally enough, 
that she was a light character, Dr. Lingard confesses 
that Wolsey bore testimony to her purity and virtue. 

She was, however, a Protestant, and this was the 
real difficulty — a matter which is betrayed by one of 
the Pope's own letters upon the subject. " The King 
of England," observed his holiness, " takes a very cir- 



92 ESTHER, THE JEWESS, 

cuitous route : he believes his first marriage to be null 
and void, and does not ask a divorce, but a nullification. 
Let him marry again, and we shall decide on its lega- 
lity" — u e. if the marriage suited the papal policy, all 
would be well — if not, otherwise. Henry, however, 
was not caught in so flimsy a trap as this. 

About 1528, the pestilence, called the sweating sick- 
ness,detained Anna Boleyn a long time in Kent ; at which 
period Dr. Lingard, from a courtier, the gossipping 
Bishop of Bayonne, learns that Henry was frightened 
into being a very religious character, and cooled upon 
his divorce. It is, however, certain, that at this time an 
understanding took place. Anna refused to return to 
the court on her recovery. Her father, at the King's 
request, entreated her to do so, which is inconsistent 
with Lingard's account ; and she did return, as his 
bride elect — that is with an understanding that they 
were to be married as soon as the divorce should be 
accomplished. At this period Queen Catharine retired 
from the court entirely. This we may fix at Decem- 
ber, 1528. The negociation, however, went on so 
slowly, that it was still years before the marriage itself 
took place. 

If we were to consider only, that for four years 
Anna Boleyn was the lady of the king's love, and 
the head of his court, and still unmarried, it would be 
difficult to believe that all was quite correct between 
the parties. But when we consider that all this time, 






AND ANNA BOLEYN. 93 

certainly from June, 1529, when a trial took place, the 
termination of the business was daily expected, and 
still put off, a very different view presents itself — one 
which, combined with other presumptive evidence, 
forbids us to condemn the young lady, who, at the 
same time we must remember, was living with her 
own parents. Henry was about thirty -four when the 
attachment commenced, and that Anna loved him, very 
sincerely, there cannot be any doubt whatever : nor — 
when the law, however unjustly, declared her lover free 
to offer his hand — is there any wonder that Anna 
Boleyn did not take up the office of casuist against 
her own ambition, as well as against her love ! Show 
us the man who would have done this, before you con- 
demn a woman. 

Dr. Lingard assumes, that, from this time, they were 
as man and wife ; though without the pretence of a 
marriage : still there is no earthly reason to believe 
him. In June, 1529, also she was by the papists re- 
ported to be pregnant. The falsity of this goes far to 
acquit her; for certainly, during her three years of 
actual wedlock she had two confinements. The 
matter, however, was at last brought to issue by the 
Pope, who forbade the king and Anna Boleyn from 
any intercourse. Henry, upon this fulmination, de- 
clared the independence of his own ecclesiastical courts. 
He appealed to them, and the divorce was pronounced 
by Cranmer — or rather the marriage declared void, 



94 ESTHER, THE JEWESS, 

March, 1533. Henry had long before declared his 
own conscience to be his own court, and the parties 
were undoubtedly married at an earlier period. The 
ordinary time fixed is November, 1532; the Catholics 
say, January 25, 1533. Queen Elizabeth was, certainly, 
born in September — according to one authority, within 
ten months of the marriage, and by the other within 
eight. It is only necessary to add, that Cranmer writes 
at the time, to Hawkins, ambassador with the emperor, 
that it was a secret to himself when the marriage 
was actually solemnised, but that it was reported to 
have been about St. Paul's day (January 25.) How- 
ever, as Cranmer was the judge who had to pronounce 
the decree, and as Henry certainly held him in high 
respect, Cranmer is just the very man who would 
render the secrecy necessary. Under any other cir- 
cumstances, he would, doubtless, have performed the 
ceremony himself. 'Tis no great matter which was 
the particular day, after all ; Henry undoubtedly antici- 
pated the sentence, and no charge can be thereby 
substantiated against the character of Queen Anna 
Boleyn. 

Upon a fair and candid view of the evidence, there 
is nothing approaching to a case made out against the 
queen : nothing to assail her character before her 
marriage, as there certainly was nothing after. But 
when three years were past, and Anna was now twenty- 
nine, Henry grew tired of his bride, which was not 



AND ANNA BOLEYN. 95 

more than half the period of their courtship ! Anna, 
whose feelings were acute, could not bear the loss of 
her husband's affection ; she ventured even to reproach 
his desertion of her, and his love for her attendant, 
Lady Jane Seymour. On the one side she was under- 
mined by the brothers of that lady — very bad men — 
and, on the other, the papists were her implacable 
enemies. Perjury pleaded against her at the tribunal 
of injustice, and Anna Boleyn lost her head ! The 
fate of Haman, however, overtook the proud Duke of 
Somerset in the sequel, as well as his brother. Like 
Eteocles and Polynices, they wrought the ruin of 
each other, and may almost be said to have fallen by 
each other's hands ! It remains for us now to examine 
the features of resemblance presented by the histories 
of these lovely and accomplished females. 

The great point undoubtedly consists in their being, 
each, in her sphere, the support and stay of a religious 
party, of whose preservation, when in the greatest 
possible danger, they were each, undoubtedly, the im- 
mediate agent. Esther was, under the superintend- 
ing care of the God of Israel, the means of her people's 
preservation, when the decree went out for their de- 
struction. Anna Boleyn was the means of averting a 
persecution, almost as dreadful, from the Protestant 
reformers of this country, and which that Church 
would, undoubtedly, have experienced, had not the pas- 
sions of the monarch been guided by her influence. 



96 ESTHER, THE JEWESS, 

The means by which the work of mercy was 
achieved, were in both cases the same — those amiable 
qualities which the sex, in general, have at their com- 
mand, and which these ladies possessed in so high a 
degree. We find them equally distinguished, not only 
for that beauty, which commands the admiration, but 
for those graces that win the love, and for those still 
more valuable qualities, that fix and retain the esteem — 
and which, when united together, form an object of 
scarcely censurable idolatry. The matters that pre- 
pared the way for their advancement, were, also, in 
the case of each, exactly the same : the divorce of two 
innocent wives, through the caprice only of their re- 
spective husbands. 

Both were, comparatively to their subsequent ele- 
vation, of lower rank ; but both had been educated 
with the greatest care, and possessed talents and ac- 
complishments of a very superior order. We have 
in their lives and actions the best proof that both 
had excellent hearts, sound and virtuous principles, 
although the difference in their education — probably, 
in their original tempers — would render one an accom- 
plished Jewess, and the other a lively and agreeable 
English woman, approaching to the character of France, 
the land where she was educated. Each exerted a 
remarkable influence over her capricious and tyrannical 
husband ; each retained it for at least seven years, 
that we know of : lastly, when we see Esther ventur- 






AND ANNA BOLEYN. 97 

ing, with calm and holy courage, to enter the fatal 
inner court of her despotic spouse, how naturally do 
our thoughts fly to the no less dangerous to be ap- 
proached King Harry ! When we admire the beauty, 
the prudence, the grace, and wisdom, combined with 
fortitude and courage of which Esther is so worthy an 
example, our thoughts may well recur to the accom- 
plished and only less happy Anna. 

Esther saved her people from slaughter and de- 
struction. Let us imagine the bigotted Henry smart- 
ing under the pen of Luther, and directing a persecu- 
tion of the Protestants ! — a circumstance, certainly 
averted by his love for Anna Boleyn : let us only 
imagine this, and we must confess^ that the latter per- 
formed a work of a similar kind, and only inferior in 
dramatic effect. It is hard, indeed, to believe that any 
imagination, however fertile in horrors, could over- 
charge the picture that necessarily must have been 
realized in England, had Henry the Eighth, with his 
obstinate and sanguinary temper, taken up the office 
of inquisitor. The horrors of his daughter's reign — the 
massacre of St. Bartholomew's day — the Irish massacre 
— the slaughter of the Albigenses, and the war of the 
Cevennes ; would have been the only types on which 
we could form a probable conjecture. The minor 
rehearsals of Henry's reign, when one day the Pro- 
testants, and another day the Catholics suffered, dis- 
played his aptitude for the dreadful character ; and 



98 ESTHER, THE JEWESS, 

certainly, neither Philip the Second, nor Charles the 
Ninth came up to the ferocity of Henry, in his latter 
years. Of all Christian kings, he, probably, in those 
years came nearest to the cruelties of Caligula, Nero, 
and Domitian — a shocking pre-eminence truly for a 
defender of the faith ! In the hand of divine wisdom 
and mercy, a lovely woman was the instrument to 
save her people. She did it by the natural weapons 
of her sex — those fascinations, of whose power, both 
for good and evil, history can furnish so many ex- 
amples. 

That Esther's part was the more heroic, is certain- 
she lived in more heroic times. Nay, it is probable 
our readers will be of opinion, that we have endeavour- 
ed to raise Anna Boleyn beyond her proper sphere, 
in placing her by the side of the grand and admirable 
Esther. If we were, indeed, to ask where the equal of 
this princess is to be really found ? We answer, no 
where in history, and only in the ideal character of Sir 
Walter Scott's Rebecca. This grand creation of 
human genius is the Esther of the romantic ages ! We 
feel convinced, Sir Walter Scott did not exactly per- 
ceive the full force of the likeness himself, or he 
could not have failed to point it out in one way or 
other : but to ourselves, the resemblance appears 
extraordinary. The character of Rebecca, was, 
doubtless, an emanation of his own grand and virtuous 
mind ; but so true is it to nature, that he has depicted 



AND ANNA BOLEYN. 99 

the very creature that could, and, under the circum- 
stances, that would have sent the very answer of Esther 
to Mordecai, and who would have acted upon it with 
the same humble dignity and holy courage. 

But allow us to request our fair readers — it is to 
them we are chiefly addressing ourselves at present — to 
read the admirable letter of Anna Boleyn to her hus- 
band — and let us hope, the monster never read it him- 
self ! No one can appreciate the elevation of Anna 
Boleyn's soul, until they have read that letter. There 
is mind and heart, and understanding, fortitude, re- 
signation, and, above all, a religious feeling, which 
partakes even of Esther's grandeur and elevation. No 
man could have written that letter, the genuineness of 
which is indisputable. It is, purely and essentially, a 
feminine production. But we — had we ourselves the 
choice, would rather rest our claim to immortality 
on the authorship of this inimitable letter, than on 
all that Cardinal Pole or Dr. Lingard ever compiled 
or published. 



THE 

PASSAGE OF THE AIRE. 

@r 5 



TO 

MRS. JOHN LEYCESTER ADOLPHUS, 
THIS BALLAD, 

NOW FOR THE FIRST TIME PUBLISHED, 

IS MOST 

RESPECTFULLY INSCRIBED. 



THE 

PASSAGE OF THE AIRE. 

A BALLAD. 



The sun shone out at morning tide, 
And sweetly fiow'd thy waters. Aire ; 

Two gallant armies, in their pride 
Of hope and valour, 'counter'd there. 

O brightly rose that morning sun, 
And softly fiow'd that silvery water ; 

How smoothly there its bright waves run 
Unconscious of the coming slaughter ! 

See here the White Rose banners wave — - 
*T is pale with anger, not with fear ; 

Its leaves a mournful dew shall bathe 
The widow's and the orphan's tear ! 

e 2 



106 THE PASSAGE OF THE AIRE. 

And lo ! its blood-red rival there. 
Waves o'er the fair enamell'd meads, 

'T would seem, while sweeping thro' the air, 
To blush for Clifford's ruthless deeds. 

O ! Clifford — man of blows and blood ! 

What crimes have stain'd thy fierce career ! 
I grieve me at thy ruthless mood — 

I see the " Rose of Raby's" * tear ! 

What heeds the mother for a crown, 
Since thou hast stabb'd her ev'ry joy ? 

Far, far away — aloof, alone — 

She weeps her spouse and murder'd boy ! 

Sure, thou hast suck'd the she wolf's breast, 
As erst the babes of Trojan line ; 

For ne'er might fear, nor pity rest, 
Within that iron heart of thine. 

And still, the butcher Clifford knows 

The vengeance injured York hath vow'd ; 

Yet nerves his arm for fiercer blows ; 
While — sounds his Northern cry aloud. 

Now, White Rose banners marching, wave 
From Pomfret's walls to Ferrybridge ; 

And Clifford's bands, as fierce and brave, 
Are lining yonder bristling ridge. 
* Cicely, Duchess of York. 



THE PASSAGE OF THE AIRE. 107 

And many a warrior soon shall bleed, 
And many a corse full soon shall lie — 

Great Warwick slays his gallant steed, 
In token that he will not fly ! 

See, see, across that narrow tide, 

They gaze upon each other's face, 
And, spite their looks of hate and pride, 

Full many a well known feature trace ! 

Perchance, the manly forms that erst 
Have wrestl'd in their childish play ; 

May here, in this affray accurst, 
The self same rivals meet to-day ! 

Brief pause was their s — for Warwick flings 

His power into that shallow tide ; 
And, like the bear, his blazon, springs 

In fury to the Northern side, 

And where was that famed leader seen, 
That e'er his merry men were slack ? 

When Warwick plung'd into the stream, 
A thousand bills were at his back. 

Then proudly rose the NevhTs cry — 
As loud the Clifford's answer'd there, 

And, see, the Northern mastives fly 
Right fiercely on the sullen bear. 



108 THE PASSAGE OF THE AIRE. 

The blows descend like beating rain, 
And fiercer, bloodier, grows the fray ; 

See, see ! the Northern bank they gain, 
What human force can Warwick stay ? 

Now Clifford bends his brow of pride — 
That well known voice is heard aloud : 

That arm hath turn'd the battle's tide, 
For round him all his bravest crowd. 

And Warwick, at the water's edge 

Once more hath ta'en his desp'rate stand ; 

But Clifford's axe is still the wedge 
That rives and scatters all the band. 

The line is pierced — the banner torn — 
The bank all slippery, stain'd with blood — 

E'en valiant Warwick, backward borne, 
Stands panting, knee-deep in the flood. 

Once more he presses up the ford — 
Again the blows descend like hail — 

Before the Nevill's vengeful sword 

Once more the Northern warriors quail ! 

And where is Clifford's axe ? it drops, 
All powerless, from that iron hand ; 

See, see, the rage of battle stops, 

And pause, at once, each hostile band ! 



THE PASSAGE OF THE AIRE. 109 

Ha ! is it mortal ? hath that blow — 
Uncertain from what hand it came — 

Laid the proud Northern Noble low, 

And quench'd, for aye, the heart of flame ? 

He lies upon that crimson steep ; 

The weapon from his hand is wrench'd ; 
Mourn, Henry, mourn! weep, Margaret, weep! 

The light of all your cause is quench'd ! 

And slow the Northern bands retire, 
Nor press upon their ranks the foe ; 

Gone, gone is all their martial fire — - 
Since valiant Clifford's head is low. 

He lies upon that crimson ground ! 

And Warwick's foot is on his breast ; 
His visage all one ghastly wound — 

His fiery soul is now at rest ! 

And " Hold — enough," is Warwick's call, 
" Our work hath been right nobly done ! 

The day that sees the Clifford's fall, 
Is better than a battle won !" 



AN 

INTRODUCTORY LECTURE, 

READ AT THE FIRST MEETING 
OF THE 

NOTTINGHAM LITERARY SOCIETY, 

December 6, 1824. 



TO 

FRANCIS HART, ESQUIRE, 

THE ABLE AND ESTIMABLE PRESIDENT OF THAT 
SOCIETY, 

THIS PAPER 

IS RESPECTFULLY INSCRIBED. 



AN 



INTRODUCTORY LECTURE, 



READ AT THE FIRST MEETING 



NOTTINGHAM LITERARY SOCIETY. 



Amongst the various principles which put the springs 
of intellect in action, I know not one which is so 
praiseworthy, or so closely interwoven with our best 
and noblest feelings, as the wish to promote the real 
and permanent improvement of the rising generation. 
Entering, therefore, upon the nature and object of 
that Institution, which now holds its first meeting in 
this room, I wish, in the first place, to seize upon this 
strong point and — omitting, for the present, all the other 



116 INTRODUCTORY LECTURE. 

manifold advantages which appear likely to arise from 
such an Institution — I wish to insist upon the advantage 
which it seems to promise to those who are too young 
to take an active part in it at present. 

I suppose there is scarcely any person here who is 
not either already in the responsible situation of a 
parent, or who does not look forward to the same 
important duties at some future period ; and I am 
certain, that I cannot hold out to them a more power- 
ful inducement than the improvement of those whose 
interest is the nearest, and the dearest to their hearts. 

The improvements which have taken place in ele- 
mentary books, in every art and science, and some 
other causes which it might be tedious to enter into at 
present, have in great measure altered the face and 
constitution of society. General knowledge is now 
become absolutely necessary, and the persons who can- 
not, or will not, go the pace of intellectual advance- 
ment, must be left behind. Institutions, like the 
present, are starting up on every side ; and already 
bearing their blossoms in rich profusion, promise to 
yield an abundant, and valuable harvest, in the course 
of no very considerable period. There is no reason 
why the large and flourishing town of Nottingham 
should be the last to exert itself. 

The grand desideratum in education is to induce the 
pupil to think : and when this is accomplished his pro- 
gress is at once insured. I dare say there is scarcely 



INTRODUCTORY LECTURE. 117 

any person here who cannot call to mind an instance 
in which the boy who was a dunce at school has proved 
a man of ability when put to business, and the reason 
is evident — because the proper spring of mental 
activity was then, for the first time, put in mo- 
tion. 

To induce young people to consider study as a matter 
of amusement, certainly, appears to be the likeliest 
mode of attaining this desirable end ; and if the present 
society prosper, and you all, as I hope you will, intro- 
duce your children here as early as possible, it is highly 
probable that an interest may be excited in their 
breasts, which may do more for them, than any other 
plan you could devise. 

But when I consider that this paper is addressed 
to an assembly which is almost entirely composed of 
members engaged in manufacturing and commercial 
pursuits ; or of those whose well being, though in- 
directly, depends almost as entirely upon the prosperity 
of those branches : I feel that something is necessary to 
to be said upon the connexion which subsists, between 
the pursuits which I have mentioned, with literary and 
scientific matters. I need not now dilate or dwell upon 
this topic, for I have only to invoke the names of those 
great and useful individuals whose exertions and inven- 
tions have carried the manufactures of this country to 
their present pitch of unrivalled excellence, to establish 
the intimacy of this connexion beyond a doubt. 



118 INTRODUCTORY LECTURE. 

Until the last century men of letters were a body- 
almost separated from the rest of the world. They 
were equally distinct from the higher and from the 
lower classes — and the consequence of this unhappy 
isolation was, that they were in great measure unfitted 
for the intercourse of society, and almost entirely for 
the business of active life. But now the case is mate- 
rially altered ; and there is scarcely a person who does 
not take considerable interest in the affairs of the 
Republic of letters. The death of one brilliant author 
and the appearance of another above the literary 
horizon, are now considered to be events of importance 
to the public ; and another remarkable discovery has 
been made — that almost every person, who has any 
thing to express, may, if he chooses to make the ex- 
periment, express it upon paper. It had long been a 
favourite maxim amongst those who were under the 
influence of ignorance and prejudice, that literary 
habits were inconsistent with practical utility. But 
the most superficial glance at the present state of 
society must afford to every candid mind the fullest 
refutation. 

It has been well observed by an author who is alike 
an honour to the country which gave him birth, and to 
the age in which he lives, that writing is the most 
important discovery of human ingenuity. By this we 
obtain our only clear ideas of the Deity, and of the 
laws by which the universe is governed. By this we 



INTRODUCTORY LECTURE. 119 

conduct all the affairs of active life. Thought and 
speech — mind and language are by this identified. It 
is the bond of union and the grand principle of social 
community. 

Survey the history of the world, and we shall see 
that it is not the performance of remarkable actions 
that gives a nation celebrity, but the pen of history, 
which hands its glories down to succeeding ages. It 
is literature — it is the power of language and the energy 
of thought which gives the finishing stroke, and com- 
pletes the idea we have of a great and polished people. 

How many nations have arisen above the political 
horizon — have ripened into extensive empires — and 
have fallen into decay — unnoticed, and unremembered 
— whilst the petty states of Greece, through the 
medium of their literature, have descended from age 
to age until antiquity has consecrated their glories in 
every heart which is able to appreciate the stores of 
classical erudition, or which is susceptible to the emo- 
tions of taste, or the delightful raptures of poetic feeling ! 

" Bear witness, Greece, thy living page ; 
Attest it many a deathless age ; 
While Kings, in dusty darkness hid, 
Have left a nameless pyramid, 
Thy sons, although the general doom 
Have swept the marble from their tomb, 
A mightier monument command, 
The mountains of their native land I" 



120 INTRODUCTORY LECTURE. 

Were I to draw the beau ideal of a great and polish- 
ed nation, I should join to commercial activity and 
military glory, the arts and sciences, both useful and 
ornamental — a proper sense of its own dignity — a high 
reputation amongst foreigners — a sterling body of 
national literature, and lastly — a language, calculated 
as well, for the elegant intercourse of society, as for 
the transaction of business, and for the pursuits of 
literature. 

It is only in our own country that we can look for 
any thing approaching to this standard of imaginary 
perfection. Our national glory stands, indeed, the 
sublimest of structures, and it promises, from the 
solidity of its foundation, to be as permanent as it is 
elegant and extensive. 

But a structure, which is composed of a number of 
pieces fitly framed together, and connected by one 
common aim and object, namely, the welfare of the 
world at large, and of our country in particular, will 
be infinitely stronger than a large mass of knowledge 
thrown together without order or arrangement. It 
is therefore, with delight, that every enlightened lover 
of his country must hail the establishment of in- 
stitutions and societies of a literary and scientific 
nature, in every part of this kingdom. Knowing that 
the formation of every minor body of literature is 
securing the foundation, whilst it ornaments the struc- 
ture, of the national fabric. 



INTRDUCTORY LECTURE. 121 

One of these minor institutions it is now our wish 
to establish here. Whilst our object is solely our 
own improvement, and that of the new generation who 
are rising around us — whilst we state explicitly that 
we wish to learn, and do not pretend to instruct others, 
still we feel the glow of patriotic feeling in our hearts : 
we glory in the prosperity of our country, and we wish 
to show that we are sensible of the influence of intel- 
lect in creating that prosperity, by improving our 
own faculties and inviting the developement of those 
around us. 



HOSCELIN ; 



FRAGMENTS OF A TALE 



it Wup$. 



TO ONE 

WHOM THE AUTHOR HAS EVER FOUND AN ACTIVE PARTNER 

IN EVERY WORK OF CHARITY, 

AN 

EXEMPLARY MOTHER AND AN AFFECTIONATE WIFE, 

THIS LITTLE POEM, 

IS VERY KINDLY INSCRIBED. 



INTRODUCTION. 



The following poem, if such it may be entitled, was written very 
hastily in the year 1817. The author does not mention this as any 
extenuation of its probably too obvious defects ; but simply, be- 
cause, he would fain vindicate to himself the only merit to which as 
a poet he feels himself entitled. That is to say, for having during 
so long a period resisted the fascinations of the Muses in favour of 
serious studies, and still more serious employments. For sixteen 
years it had lain amongst his papers unread, and it has now obtained 
a place in this little volume, at the desire of her to whom it is 
inscribed, being one of his very earliest efforts in verse. If, as hath 
been suggested, there is really any resemblance, between the sketches 
of female character which it presents, and the " Minna and 
Brenda," of our lamented and immortal Novelist, the Author begs 
to add, that it was written some years before the " Pirate" was 
published, and, therefore, the observation is very flattering. 



ROSCELIN. 



'T was eve, and quiet was the scene, 
As nature's self had slumbering been : 
All was as still in earth and air, 

As if her couch, with poppies spread, 
She deck'd in lonely wildness there, 

E'en for her favour'd poet's head ; 
No breath of wind upon the lake, 
No aspen rustled in the brake, 
That placid water winds to meet 
The babbling* stream, whose murmur sweet 

Down yon dark wood descends : 
And there, amongst the matted reeds, 
Where oft the lonely mallard feeds, 

Its gentle murmur ends. 
Rough, rude, abrupt — a furze-crown'd height 
Frowns, like a giant in his might, 
F 2 



130 ROSCELIN* 

O'er that soft lake below ; 
Yet to its lovely, mirror'd face, 
Reflecting back that rugged brow* 

Adds stills another grace ! 

To heart that on romantic dreams 
Delights to dwell, the stern cliff seems 

A giant of the glen : 
The placid lake might well appear, 
Some mourning captive, sad* and fair, 

Imprison'd in his den. 
But, oh ! this scene, one beauty shows, 
A moorland country only knows ; 

That transient shade, of varying hue, 

O'er the white moss, or heather blue, 
By fits the sun-beam throws. 

* In such a scene,' might gazer say, 
' Retiring from the face of day ; 
The thoughtful — soul-correcting sage, 
Who sigh'd to spend his sinking age 
Far, far aloof from passion's rage, 
Might fix his peaceful hermitage ? 
Nor fear lest on his solitude 
The noisier world would e'er intrude ; 
Nor fear, lest in that peaceful cell, 
The fiercer passions e'er could dwell ! 



ROSCELIN. 131 

' Ambition stern would find no den, 
In such a lone and lovely glen, 
He dwells amidst the haunts of men : 

For rapine, and for lust no food, 

In such a perfect solitude ; 
Here love, nor hate, a place could find, 
Nor jealousy, of both combined ; 
Here are no gamesters — here no dice, 
No gold — nor — therefore, avarice.' 

Is this your thought, weak child of dreams, 
Who think'st the world is what it seems ? 
Is this your thought ? Nay, gaze again, 
Are not yon towers the work of men ? 
Is there a spot where man hath trod, 
And hath not stain 'd the virgin sod ! 
Yea, gentle reader, gaze again — 
May not yon fortress be the den 
Of some lone tyrant, in whose breast 
The worst of all those passions rest ? 



Beneath a stunted oak, whose bough 
O'erhangs the silvery lake below, 
Leaning upon a dark grey rock, 
Which broke, in nature's early shock. 
Was here, in her vagaries, thrown, 
And, like an exile, stands alone. 



132 ROSCELIN. 

A youth we see — for him 't is plain, 

The landscape spreads its charms in vain ; 

For by that oak he long hath stood, 

Gazing upon the silent flood, 

As mute and motionless, as if 

He form'd a part of that grey cliff; 

Fix'd is his eye, where first it fell, 

As fasten'd by a magic spell ; 

His thoughts, abstracted, far away, 

To other scenes and climates stray. 

His height, his limbs, his manly chest, 
No common share of strength express'd ; 
A splendid sword, his youthful pride, 
Hung down familiar by his side ; 
In his dark grey and pensive eye 
A something you might haply spy, 
That whisper'd of a slumb'ring fire, 
Quick to resent, and prompt to ire. 
He starts ! Why doth he raise his eye ? 
To mark the wild ducks soaring by ! 
Why shrinks he now as from the view ? 
Lest the poor wild ducks see him too ? 
No. See two maids, with every grace 
Adorn'd, of figure and of face, 
The verdant bank together pace ; 
And he would fain avoid their eye, 
Peace, curious I — peace, and ask not why ? 



ROSCELIN. 133 

Now twilight drops her shadowy veil, 
O'er wood and water — hill and dale ; 
Those furze- clad knolls which, on the right, 

To that dark wood extend, 
Are undistinguish'd from it now, 

Their shades so closely blend : 
It is, indeed, the very hour 
Of superstition's deepest power ! 
Her wing the boding owl doth flap, 
And well might tim'rous fancy shape 
Each stump, each stone, and leafless tree, 
To forms of horrid fantasy. 

Why starts the youth, as if he saw 
Somewhat exceeding nature's law ? 
And why his length, now, hath be thrown 
Behind that rough and craggy stone ? 
Why seems he ready, as he lies, 
Still, at the first alarm, to rise ? 
Why loos'd his blade within its sheath ? 
And why half drawn his silent breath ? 

Two shadowy forms approach, in lone 
Converse, but in so low a tone, 
That scarce a word the youth may catch, 
Tho' all his soul is on the stretch ; 
Hist I Speak they? < Aye, this night, I say, 
Danger lurks ever in delay/ 



134 ROSCELIN. 

' All' — but whate'er might be the rest, 
'T was in a lower tone express'd. 
A pause. Again — < I say this night, 
The vessel w T aits — ere morning light, 
Matilda/ — Now his ear and eye, 
Are stretch'd almost to agony ; 
Again it sinks, and not a word 
Further the listener hath heard ; 
And soon, adown the steep descent, 
He caught their footsteps as they went. 

' And thus' — exclaiming as he stood 
Alone, above that tranquil flood : 
1 Thus — on my word depends the fate, 
Of those whom most I ought to hate. 
Perish the thought 'twould stain my name ! 
No ! Roscelin — 



And now in Hubert's stately halls 
The lamps are lit as evening falls ; 
Those maids, adorn'd with every grace, 
The polished floor together pace : 
Edith — whose forehead fair and high, 
Whose pencill'd brow and hazel eye, 
Spoke sportive mood and humour sly ; 
Yet in her gentle looks and tone, 
Free kindness and good humour shone. 



ROSCELIN. 135 

Her form was true — her step was light— 
Her cheek was fair — her eye was bright ; 
Her's were the open looks that win, 

Without an effort, or an art, 
That ere the cautious nymph begin, 

Hath charm'd the eye and won the heart ; 
Her's was the nameless grace that drew 
The love of all — and held it too ! 

The other and the younger fair— 
Whose dark and softly waving hair, 
In unrestrain'd luxuriance flows, 
Round neck — as white as Alpine snows, 
A softer cast of features wore, 
Where reign 'd the paler lily more ; 
And her's, each gazer must confess, 
A higher class of loveliness ; 
Yet those soft features, closely mark'd, 

Show'd tokens of a lofty soul ; 
Firm in whatever she embark'd, 

Nor- — over patient of control. 

Her fairy step that woke no sound, 
And kiss*d, but scarcely touch'd the ground, 
Seem'd, as she paced the polish'd flag, 
Light as Rhodian's sculptured stag ; 
Beneath whose dainty foot, 9 t is said. 
The skiful artist drew a thread ; 



136 ROSCELIN. 

Sweetly retiring from the view, 

Her mantle that fair ankle veil'd, 
Whilst over all her figure too, 

The same light elegance prevail'd. 
The thoughtless gazer nought might see, 
Save high-born maiden, kind and free ; 
Yet ever claiming as her due, 
That deep respect from all she drew ; 
The sage, observant, would espy, 
When rose her brow and flash'd her eye, 
The seeds of passion — which, if nurs'd, 
Might dare the boldest — or the worst ! 

And now we strive, in simple verse, 
Their secret converse to rehearse ; 
And — still the olden truth we prove, 
That maidens fondly talk of love ! 

Edith. 

' O, you have, noticed how intent 
' His gaze upon your brow is bent ?' 

Matilda. 

6 'T is true, I have, but nought might learn 
< From such a gaze — half wild, half stern ; 
i So hastily withdrawn too, ought 
i To make me frame so strange a thought ; 



ROSCELIN. 137 

* My features, it is true, may raise 
' A thought, perchance of other days ; 
' Yet, O believe me, Edith, dear, 
' In me no rival need'st thou fear V 

Edith. 

i A rival, truly ! come, 't is well ! 
' And now, Matilda, prithee tell, 
' Why you should deem this youth so trim, 
' To Edith ought ? Or she to him ?' 

Matilda. 

' Peace Edith! peace! methinks alone 
, 6 The falt'ring — self convicted tone, 
' In which that second query fell, 
' The first might answer — passing well V 

Edith. 

* Pshaw ! thou hast made a sorry guess/ 

Matilda. 
i Come, cease the hypocrite — confess/ 

Then half in anger, half in play, 
The pouting maiden turn'd away ; 
Matilda now, with deeper tone, 
Press'd her soft hand, and thus went on : — 



138 ROSCELIN. 

' Edith, thou knowest I am heir 
i To all these lands and manors fair ; 
' My father, too, thou know'st the leech — > 
' Looks grave of late, and now his speech 
' Is somewhat of an inward bruise ; 
' And Edith, dear, I cannot choose 
i But feel and know, my honour'd sire 
' Not long will grace yon blazing fire ! 

* Thou know'st, my cousin and my friend, 
i What ills the heiress oft attend — 

' Whose youth by law so harsh and hard, 

* Is kept in thrall — misnamed ward ! 

i Our halls decayed — our woods destroy'd — 
' Our fertile fields a barren void ; 

* These ills on every orphan fall, 

' On female orphans worst of all ! 
' For, Edith, not content with these, 
' Our rents and revenues to seize, 
i So hard our lot — for paltry gold, 
' Our very marriages are sold !' 

She paused awhile, but answer none 
The maiden gave. She now went on : — 

' These thoughts upon my peace have prey'd, 

* And were mine honour'd parent laid 
' To-morrow in the clay-cold grave, 

' What then could poor Maltilda save ? 



ROSCELIN. 139 

i What, snatch her from such dreadful fate ? 
< No — Edith! — it were then too late !' 



Edith. 

' Beshrew me ! but the wisest plan 
i Were, take a husband whilst you can ! 
' I'd have one — and of mine own choice' — 
The maiden laugh'd, with faltering voice ; 
For with those words the thought would mix, 
How soon her own poor heart could fix ! 

Matilda. 

' Edith, thou secondest the voice 
6 Of this fond counsellor within ; 

1 1 mean to exercise my choice ; 

' Nay spare me, love, that wicked grin ! 

* All thou would'st say I well may guess — 

* Nay more — thy right I will confess. 

i But hear me out, sweet cousin ; now, 

' Tho' late, I'll tell the unvarnish'd truth — 

' Yes, I forgive thy laughing brow ; 
' Edith, I love a noble youth ! 

* But then, alas ! so hard my lot, 

4 My good stern father loves him not ! 

* Nay even, altho' into his ears 

' I pour'd, at length, my deadly fears. 



140 ROSCELIN. 

i I might not hope for his consent ; 

< Yet — Edith — yet my heart is bent 
' The hazard of his wrath to stand, 

1 Ere to another give this hand/ 

Edith. 
1 Young Americ Vere ?-' 

Matilda. 

* The same ; 
'My choice, now, Edith, can'st thou blame ?' 

Edith. 

' The youth is comely — but we know 
' His sire's thy father's deadliest foe ; 
6 Each by the other's hand hath bled ; 
1 Besides — the gallant loves, 'tis said. 
1 O be his fond affection tried, 
1 Before Matilda is his bride !' 

Matilda. 

1 Nay he is fond as he is brave ! 

< What further would my cousin have ? 
' For where, in glory's bright career, 

* Is found the equal of de Vere ?' 






roscelin. 141 

Edith. 

6 Peace, naughty cousin ! — say when last 
* The youth you saw ?' 

Matilda. 

6 But two nights past ;' 
' And see yon moon that shines so bright, 
6 Edith — he comes, again, to-night. 
' Thou know'st that postern — listen — well— 
; The stranger comes ! The rest I'll tell/ 

He paus'd not for Matilda's smile, 
But bow'd, and pass'd in hurried style ; 
Straight to his chamber bent his way 
To arm : the danger of delay 
Still ringing in his 'wilder'd ears, 
Mingling with strange and shapeless fears ; 
Scarce time to act, and none for thought, 
A gallant squire he first had sought — 
Young Edwin — words between them pass'd 
But few ; for steeds were saddling fast, 
And arms are jingling thro' the yard, 
And bustling to and fro the guard. 

While haste and wonder seize on all, 
His page sought Roscelin, young Paul, 
And marvel deep struck every one, 



142 ROSCELIN. 

When they perceiv'd his empty stall, 

To find the bright black barb was gone ! 
In sooth it was a gallant steed, 
Unmatch'd for courage, strength, and speed, 
Of lineage high, and foreign race, 
And ever foremost in the chase. 
All then for sudden march prepar'd, 
Deep silence reign'd thro' all the yard ; 
Approach'd, aghast, an ancient dame, 
Matilda's nurse — in haste she came ; 
The lady, at her sire's behest, 
She sought in vain — O virgin blest ! 
The lady — at this fearful hour — 
Was missing from her empty bower ! 



The sun, thro' an autumnal day, 
Had shone out with his brightest ray ; 
And ne'er did love-lorn poet weave 
His dream upon a sweeter eve ; 
Nor Cynthia lend her milder light 
To grace a softer, stiller night; 
Tho' shorn, as yet, of half her beams, 
Between yon clouds she gently gleams, 
Whose watery borders — half transparent, 
Just serve to make the shade apparent ; . 
And, there upon the velvet green, 



ROSCELIN> 143 

Without the walls — a strip is seen, 
As if it had a pathway been, 
Reaching the grove, but not beyond, 
With the bright sky to correspond ; 
A darksome shade, on either side, 
Extends o'er all the landscape wide ; 
But where, in long and sober lines, 
Rise the tall forms of yonder pines, 
There doth the silent shade assume 
The midnight's deepest, darkest, gloom. 

And tho' the gentle soul might feel, 
On such a night sensations steal, 
O'er his lone heart — and that sweet moon 
Recall his scatter'd thoughts, full soon, 
To some bright image, which afar 
Cheers him — a never-setting star ! 
Yet hearts there be of sterner frame, 
Who seek, in darkness, other game ; 
Yea, close beneath the turrets dark, 
Which late the gazing eye would mark, 
From the tall cliff above the wood, 
Where Roscelin had listening stood, 
There — close beneath that deepest shade, 
There lurks, e'en now — an ambuscade ! 

How then — in merely human phrase, 
How may we now describe the gaze, 



144 ROSCELIN. 

So full of terror and amaze, 

Each on his fellow cast ; 
When hark ! on every ear around, 
Fell one long shriek — a thrilling sound ! 

Like angel's waking blast ! 
It filled that deep and awful pause — 
It seem'd to rise from out the walls ; 
And as it fell on Edwin's ear, 
Closer he grasp'd the oaken spear ; 

He lanc'd his courser's side ; 
Up to the gate in haste he rid, 
As hastily the porter bid 

To throw it open wide ! 
The rest, inspired with equal haste, 
Have quickly form'd upon the waste ; 

But whither shall they ride ? 

Edwin and Roscelin are seen 
To wheel like lightning round the green ; 
Sure — something in the murky light 
Hath caught brave Edwin's eagle sight ! 

He leapt upon the ground, 
Thro' the opposing boughs he tore, 
And quickly in his arms he bore 

A maiden gagg'd and bound ! 
'T was not Matilda ! When untied, 
Frantic the lovely Edith cried, 
' O ! speed, ere rescue, be too late ! 
Snatch poor Matilda from her fate ;' 



ROSCELIN. 145 

" Which way ?." "I know not ! Edwin fly, 

If e'er" — her wild hysteric cry 

He sooth'd, whilst Roscelin address'd 

A few calm words unto the rest ; 

For flash'd upon his mind the word, 

But now upon the cliff he heard ; 

And spurring over moss and lea, 

He led that squadron to the sea ; 

O'er many a danger now they flew, 

The headlong riders never knew ; 

For craggy was the path, I ween, 

E'en had their march by day-light been. 

Thus spurr'd they on, in lengthen'd file, 
For many a rough and dreary mile, 
Until they reach an ancient cross, 
'T was rudely built, and green with moss, 
And, doubtless, in that early day, 
Taught wandering travellers the way ; 
For where that ancient cross was set, 
There, three highways together met ; 
And hence, six angles, likewise, made, 
In each, a leafy stunted shade 
Rose, as of trees, which there had grown, 
As ancient as the cross of stone. 

Approaching nigh that well known place, 
Here slacken'd Roscelin his pace, 



146 110SCELIN. 

But seldom visited, I wis, 

At such untimely hour as this ; 

What marvel — if mysterious fear 

Had fasten'd, on a spot so drear, 

Some fearful tale ? no matter what— 

They halted by this lonely spot. 

And now he motions with his hand 

For silence, to his little band ; 

Whilst that command, we need not say, 

Few felt a wish to disobey ! 

Is it a rustling of the leaves ? 

Is it the shade our eye deceives ? 

Or issues from that gloomy nook 

A horseman? " Comrades ! Edwin, look !" 

Rose, in an instant, every spear, 
As that mysterious form drew near ; 
Stepp'd Roscelin before the rest, 
And him, the phantom form address'd 
In whispering tone — the hand it rais'd, 
And pointed — whilst the troop amaz'd, 
Fix'd to the spot, in silence stand, 
When turning, he divides the band. 
Six horsemen by the cross are plac'd, 
And six are stationed on the waste ; 
The rest, dismounting, pierce the shade, 
With spear in hand, and ready blade ; 
With these the young adventurer goes, 
When hark ! — a sudden yell arose, 



ROSCELIN. 147 

As when the vent'rous hunters dare 
To rouse the tiger in his lair ! 

That shade no moon-light ray could pierce, 
But sturdy was the fight and fierce ; 
Yet had there been one ray of light, 
To guide the aim, and show the fight, 
Thy noble blood, young stranger, ne'er 
Had reek'd upon a ruffian's spear ! 
'T is true, there rose no sulph'rous flash, 
Yet groan and yell, and weapon's clash, 
Spoke fierce resistance, sharp attack, 
And yet the assailants fell not back : 
At once it sinks ! The fight is done — 
The lovely prize is lost or won ! 

And she is won — the lady fair, 
Now to the ancient cross they bear, 
And with her, bound, an unknown knight, 
Whom quickly, by the pale moon-light, 
They know for Americ de Vere, 
What wondrous chance had brought him here ? 
The fair Matilda he had lov'd, 
As many a tender token prov'd ! 
Yet — as their sires were long at feud, 
And in each other's blood imbru'd — 
None deem'd the lovely maiden e'er 
Had listen'd to the young De Vere : 



148 R0SCEL1N. 

None ever deem'd, at least till now, 
That he had breath'd the tender vow ! 
Now further secrecy were vain, 
Bound in this mystery, t is plain, 
The blood within yon thicket flows 
Of ruffians — unto either foes ! 
Whate'er their object — what their aim — 
Their enmity to both the same ; 
This — this we know, and this alone — 
The rest it never can be known ! 

Now Roscelin two troopers bore, 
All weltering in his crimson gore ; 
On the rude steps the youth was laid, 
And scarce, it seem'd his sinking head, 
The scene before him understood, 
So faint, so weak, from loss of blood ! 
To staunch that blood hath Edw T in tried ; 
Matilda, who had shrunk aside, 
Again rush'd on, and knelt beside ! 
She took his head upon her knee, 
" Roscelin ! hast thou bled for me ? 
Unworthy as I am," De Vere ! 
He saw who dropp'd a feeling tear, 
As o'er the gallant youth he stands, 
And now he joins their trembling hands ; 
" Farewell ! and may ye both be bless'd !" 
Matilda's to his lips he press'd ; 



ROSCELIN. 149 

And feebly still that hand he grasp'd, 
In vain he strove to rise — he gasp'd. 

" Nay, cease, dear Edwin ! all is past, 
I feel my life is ebbing fast ; 
And Roscelin's head will soon be low, 
Yet fain his faltering tongue would show, 
A tale — perchance" — He raised his head, 
" Edwin, Matilda, friends," he said, 
" Hear, from my dying lips, that tale, 
Ere my departing breath shall fail ; 
Lady attend. Thy sire and mine 
Were brothers of a noble line ; 
Nay — on my dying hopes — 't is truth, 
Thy native halls beheld their youth ; 
Near of an age, together bred, 
The same their pastime, board, and bed, 
Together train'd in arms, I wot, 
For each a younger brother's lot. 
In early youth they cross'd the main, 
And sought the distant shore of Spain ; 
Where flar'd, like any evil star, 
The Moorish standard o'er Navarre ; 
When valiant Sancho, wise, and brave, 
Rose up his native land to save. 

" 'T was there, in many a gallant fight, 
Still side by side, they proved their might ; 



150 ROSCELIN. 

The elder — but no matter how, 
I feel approaching death, e'en now ; 
And needs must haste my story, lest 
His icy hand should veil the rest ; 
Nor need Matilda scorn the claim 
I proffer to a kinsman's name ! 
The buried claim of — aye of one, 
Whose every claim, on earth, is gone I 
Unless it be, remembrance dear, 
And friendship's solitary tear ! 

" My sire, the elder of the twain ; 
Beheld, and lov'd, a maid of Spain, 
Let it suffice, that they were wed, 
And I, the offspring of their bed : 
Suffice, my sainted mother died, 
In that same year which hail'd her bride ; 
And when, alas ! the fatal stroke 
Upon the widow'd husband broke, 
Ne'er saw his blasted eye the light, 
For many a day, and dreary night ! 

" A stranger, then the brother sought ; 
Unlook'd-for tidings he had brought ; 
How that their elder brother, slain, 
Had left yon fair and wide domain ; 
And, as his ear the news receiv'd, 
A subtle scheme his avarice weav'd t 



ROSCELIN. 151 

Nought, then, the wretched parent knew 
But his poor babe had perish'd too ; 
Soon he resign'd those distant halls, 
And sought a cloister's silent walls ; 
He left thy sire, fair maid, to claim 
The lands — forgotten was his name; 
Whilst he, whose dying form ye view, 
In climes afar, to manhood grew ; 
An outcast, from his father's land, 
He drew his bread from strangers' hand — 
And swell'd upon a distant strand, 
A petty chieftain's slender band ! 

" At length — the tale were long— tho' late, 
He chanced to learn his hapless fate. 
Let it suffice, the proofs I bear, 
Would quickly 'stablish me the heir 
Of all yon lands and manors fair. 
My breath is weaker — for the rest 
I came — and, in my vengeful breast, 
A softer passion quickly stole, 
And — love, Matilda, fill'd my soul ! 
I came too late ! — I could not shun 
The truth — thy maiden heart was won. 
I came too late ! — the prize was lost, 
O ! how my soul was tempest toss'd ; 
Ambition tempted, love allured, 
Oh what a storm this heart endured ! 
Now all is done, and I am cured ! 



152 KOSCELIN. 

" If, to these halls, as friend I came, 
Ye know no spy, or traitor's name ; 
With mine is join'd — a service done, 
The baron's thanks I might not shun. 
Let it suffice, I die for those 
Whom vengeance would have made my foes ! 
So ends — before it well begun — 
The course I might, perchance, have run ! 
All past offences be forgiven — 
Their 's, upon earth — and mine in heaven I" 

Weaker and weaker, grows his speech, 
" Ere this, the news thy sire will reach ; 
Tell him, his dying kinsman's breath 
Forgave, and bade your bridal wreath 
Be quickly woven — fresh, and fair, 
Long may it deck Matilda's hair ! 
And as he hopes to die in peace, 
Let this vain feud for ever cease ! 

" One parting word with thee, De Vere, 
There is a boy — let him be dear 
E'en as his childhood was to me — 
Ye owe his speed, that both are free ! 
I guessed — but cannot tell ye why, 
And to this cross I bade him hie. 
Before young Edith's scream was heard, 
That boy had ridden at my word : 



ROSCELIN. 153 

'T was he, the villain's lair discern'd ; 
'T is he, who with the news return'd. 
Protect" — He lower sank — " that boy — 
Matilda might perchance employ" — 

Now fails that voice I — no more the poet knows — 
Such, Roscelin, the tale of thy young woes ! 
The gentle reader well may guess the rest — 
The chief relented, and the lovers blessed : 
Bright eyes o'er Roscelin's remains have wept — 
And, now, he sleepeth where his fathers slept ! 



G c l 



THE 

CLASSICAL PERIOD OF GREECE, 



COMPARED WITH 



THE REVIVAL OF LETTERS 



JMWrra 3Ewm*» 



TO THE 

REV. JOHN HEYRICK MACAULAY, A.M. 

OF 
REPTON PRIORY, 

IN THE COUNTY OF DERBY, 

THIS ESSAY 

IS INSCRIBED AS A TESTIMONIAL OF FRIENDSHIP 
AND ESTEEM. 



ESSAY. 



It is the excellent remark of a profound and reflect- 
ing author, that ancient Greece was a miniature re- 
presentation of modern Europe : and, if we recur to 
the middle ages, we shall find that this resemblance 
may be traced, in several interesting and remarkable 
particulars. The oracle of Delphos, for example, was 
its papacy — the Trojan war its crusades — and it looked 
back, also, to an age of departed heroes, exactly an- 
swering to the western age of chivalry. The histories 
of both the latter may be compared to the gorgeous 
tapestry, which furnished employment for the fingers 
of those peerless dames, whose charms it was the busi- 
ness of the votaries of that chivalry to celebrate— 
being a splendid and a most elaborate embroidery of 
fiction, upon the simple texture of history. In their 
political — maritime— -and commercial affairs; they bore, 



160 ESSAY. 

perhaps, a still closer affinity ; and in the matter of 
literature — it is the object of the present essay to 
pursue the resemblance into a closer and more cir- 
cumstantial detail. 

The plan which we intend to pursue in the arrange- 
ment of this enquiry, is — first — to mention those, 
which strike us, as being the leading circumstances 
affecting the two political systems, and which shall 
appear to have given an advantage, in any respect, to 
the one, over the other: and, thus, to balance that 
part of the enquiry first : next, to give a concise view of 
the progress of literature in each ; and — lastly, to bring 
some of their principal features, into a closer and more 
immediate comparison. 

Greece, more particularly than any other nation, 
has the credit of having created, as it were, its own 
literature. And, indeed, of all modern nations we 
may safely assert, that they, at any rate, began with 
a specimen, in almost every branch of literary com- 
position — a specimen nearly approaching to perfection. 
It would be impossible, perhaps, for the most enthu- 
siastic admirer of Greece, to point out any assistance 
which the Indian — the Persian — or the Northern poets 
ever derived from the works of that distinguished 
country : and in the sacred volume we find, combined 
with that awful dignity, which is always inseparable 
from truth, a depth of poetical feeling, and a sub- 
limity of expression, which must always cast a shade 



ESSAY. 161 

"upon all other writings. But these facts do not apply 
to our own immediate subject ; for Greece, when com- 
pared with modern Europe, stands precisely in the 
situation we have attempted to sketch. 

It is true, that the Greek alphabet was principally 
borrowed from the Phoenicians, and imported into 
Greece by settlers from the latter country. And it is 
equally true, that the first elements of science, and the 
basis of many, if not all the useful arts, in the economy 
of human life, were learned, by the same means, from 
that people, and from the Egyptians. Still, as far as 
we are able to discover, these were only, as a modern 
author has expressed it, " scattered hints and mutilated 
recollections," and which were, very probably, handed 
down, traditionally, from the Patriarchs of old, who 
were the immediate organs of the Divine communica- 
tions unto mankind. Whatever progress the Eastern 
nations might have made, in art or science, their me- 
thod of recording their discoveries was miserably 
inefficient ; and, therefore, Greece, through the medium 
of her literature, has the almost exclusive credit of 
them all : nor is her title, whether just or not, ever 
likely to be contested. 

But as impartiality ought to prevail in every enquiry 
like the present, it must, therefore, be acknowledged, 
that, along with this apparent disadvantage, Greece 
was a stranger to some of the peculiar difficulties, 
which retarded the progress of modern nations, in the 



162 ESSAY. 

infancy of their literature and science. We ought, 
therefore, if I may be allowed the expression, to strike 
a balance between the two, before we proceed to the 
comparison before us ; for many of the facts, upon 
which we have to reason, are deeply involved in these 
mutual and reciprocal advantages. It is not to be 
expected that this can be done, within the compass of 
the present essay, in a complete or satisfactory man- 
ner : we merely purpose to give a sketch of the view, 
we ourselves have taken of the subject — we have 
neither time nor materials, at present, to complete the 
picture. It is a point which we have never happened 
to see discussed in any work ; and, therefore, whilst 
we mention what we consider to be the desideratum, 
we are aware that we shall perform, even the slighter 
task which we have prescribed ourselves, in a very 
incomplete and insufficient manner. 

The excellent models which the Greek writers have 
afforded to all modern imitators is, certainly, a very 
great advantage to the latter. For although the effect 
of imitation is, in some measure, to confine the energies 
of the human mind, still, in every particular case, if 
the question is put, is it an advantage to begin with a 
model or not ? — we believe most persons would reply 
in the affirmative. 

If, again, we consider the disparity in population, 
and extent of territory, here, also, the moderns had 
a verv decided advantage over Greece. For when the 



ESSAY. 163 

purity of her spirit had suffered, from the taint of 
sophistry — when her liberties were lost — the necessary 
consequence of a democracy — and when the decay, 
which appears incident to every state of full blown 
perfection had begun to take place; there was no 
rising state, just beginning to force itself into notice 
by its own efforts, and ready to take up the sinking 
taste with renovated vigour. Whereas in Europe, 
when Italy had furnished her Dante — her Petrarch — 
her Tasso — her Ariosto — her Boccacio, and her Machi- 
avelli : when Spain had produced her Cervantes, and 
her Calderon. France and England were only just 
accomplishing the earlier steps of language ; and the 
efforts of Germany were retarded even later still. 
This, also, was a very manifest disadvantage, on the 
part of Greece, when compared with her modern 
rival. 

We have here mentioned the principal advantages 
on the side of the moderns. But the Greeks had one, 
of prodigious weight and importance, in the greater 
unity and simplicity of their language. This can only 
be properly estimated, by a comparative examination 
of the difficulties, which the different modern nations 
had, in reducing the various elements, of which their 
several languages were composed, into a form, capable 
of grammatical and regular construction. If we merely 
recur, however, to the old authors of our own country, 
who wrote before the English language was reduced 



164 ESSAY. 

to its present state of perfection, we shall see enough 
to convince us, both of the existence and the import- 
ance of this difficulty. By taking the dates, at which 
the different European dialects arrived at any perfec- 
tion in style, and comparing this with that of their 
foundation upon the dissolution of the Roman empire, 
we shall obtain, at once, a view of the extended 
period, to which their struggles, in the formation of 
their languages, were protracted. 

The transcendant merit of Grecian literature must 
be obvious to every one, who is at all acquainted with 
the classical authors of antiquity ; and will never be 
denied, even by those who know them, only, through 
the medium of translations. The literature of Greece, 
is almost exclusively that of Athens : and when the 
smallness of that enterprising State is considered, our 
admiration will be still further increased. It was at 
Athens that Demosthenes established himself, as the 
model of rhetorical declamation ; that Thucidydes 
shone unrivalled in history ; and that Socrates fanned, 
into an immortal flame, the almost only sparks of true 
philosophy, which were ever elicited by the unassisted 
force of human intellect. In addition to these, we 
may mention Aristotle, though not a native of Athens, 
who pursued his studies, through almost every branch 
of science, with such amazing industry and success, 
that until the period when our immortal countrymen 
Bacon, Boyle, and Newton arose, to throw a new light 



ESSAY. 165 

upon philosophy, scarcely a single step of advancement 
had been made. 

It was to the taste and judgment of Solon, an Athe- 
nian, that we are, in a great measure, indebted for the 
preservation and arrangement of the poems of Homer : 
and, therefore, the obligations which the world at large, 
and poets in particular, are under to those immortal 
works, are almost all transmitted through the medium 
of Athens. Nor ought a small share of those rays of 
glory, by which they are encircled, to rest upon the 
head of him, who thus rescued them from the hazards 
of oral recitation — collected them into a single body — 
and arranged them in their present shape. 

It was at Athens that iEschylus first ventured upon 
those wild and sublime flights of genius, which were 
the ground-work of all the subsequent efforts of the 
tragic muse : and whilst every Englishman justly 
glories in the name of Shakspear, let him never grudge 
their proper meed of praise to those, who we're the 
inventors of an art, to which we owe so many delicious 
hours — so many delightful associations ! 

The high degree of mental cultivation, to which 
even the populace of Athens had arrived, is evident 
from the writings of Aristophanes. That poet wrote 
exclusively for them: and yet, when considered in- 
dependently of that ribaldry, which, to the disgrace of 
human nature, is inseparable from the popular taste of 
every nation, he contains beauties of the very highest 



166 ESSAY. 

order ; and such as we could scarcely expect a mob — 
even of Athenians — to relish. But to the attainment 
of any thing approaching to this, the extent of our own 
territory, and the number of our inhabitants, presents 
a decisive barrier ; and, therefore, it is not absolutely 
fair to institute any comparison between the degree of 
intelligence possessed by the English and Athenian 
populace. 

Pity that the perfection of human intellect should 
have contained, within, a poison, which at length 
proved fatal to itself ! The superior ingenuity of the 
Athenians was, doubtless, owing to their popular form 
of government ; which, placing every — even the highest 
offices in the State — within the reach of the meanest 
citizen, gave an unexampled stimulus to private exer- 
tion. But induced, also, a licentiousness, inseparable 
from the " majesty of the people" — alike fatal to liberty 
— justice — and discrimination ! The same populace 
who relished the wit of Aristophanes — who soared 
with the flights of iEschylus — melted with the pathos 
of Sophocles — and hung enraptured on the periods of 
Demosthenes — could banish an Aristides, and murder 
a Phocion and Socrates ! 

In presenting such a view of Grecian literature, as 
shall be sufficiently clear for the purpose required, 
and, at the same time, be sufficiently concise for our 
present limits, it is, of course, only possible to seize 
upon one or two principal features ; and some degree 



ESSAY. 167 

of attention will be requisite, on the part of the reader, 
in order that he may perfectly comprehend it. 

We must, therefore, observe, that the political his- 
tory of Greece is marked by three particular events — 
the Persian war — the Peloponnesian war — and the 
expedition of Alexander the Great : the whole of 
which are included in less than two centuries. The 
same political events mark, also, the history of its 
literature : which is, therefore, divided into three 
periods. The first from the age of Solon to the Pelo- 
ponnesian war — the second extends to the expedition of 
Alexander — which last, having entirely changed the 
public taste bv the importation of that of Asia — together 
with its wealth and sensuality — a third period ensued 
which had no connexion with the literature of Greece, 
properly so called. There has been in the history of 
the literature of every country, a similar progress. 

The first period, is that of invention and poetry — 
the second is that of maturity and learning — the third 
is, that when, political consequence being lost, litera- 
ture sinks into decay and imbecility. Greece is chiefly 
remarkable for the astonishingly short period in which 
she ran through these several stages. The literature 
of Greece had reached its zenith by the end of the 
first period— and Demosthenes, who may be considered 
as the last of its writers, was exactly the same age as 
Philip, the destroyer of its liberties. 

Previous to the Persian war, Greece had very little 



168 ESSAY. 

more than the same materials which are common to 
every nation — a wild and traditional poetry, handed 
down from its earliest ancestors ; but of these were 
composed the immortal poems of Homer, in the com- 
pass of which work, almost every variety of that poetry 
occurs. This, again, paved the way for other writers, 
in different branches of literature ; who severally 
reached perfection, in their different paths, with a 
facility, of which the history of the whole world can- 
not, certainly, produce a parallel. The cause of this 
may undoubtedly be found in its political affairs. The 
Persian war had given the Greeks an extraordinary 
stimulus ; a few thousands of that race had defeated r 
countless host — and a few hundreds had kept at bay 
as many millions ! Every thing was then grand and 
gigantic — the virtue and patriotism of Greece, were, 
as yet, in full vigour — and although the seeds of decay 
were planted, in the very moment of victory ; yet the 
whole nation, at that moment, appeared a nation 
of prodigies ! We say the seeds of decay were 
planted in the moment of victory, because it is evi- 
dent that Greece was ruined, for want of an external 
enemy, to force the jarring States, of which it was 
composed, into a permanent union amongst them- 
selves. The very victories which placed Greece at 
the head of the civilized world, by removing that grand 
principle of social community, a common danger, left 
it to prey upon its own vitals — ruined its patriotic 



ESSAY. f69 

spirit — debased its heroic virtues — and demoralized the 
restless, and intellectual character of its inhabitants ! 
This revolution was no more than has taken place 
in other countries, where the same circumstances 
occurred. The demoralization of Rome followed, im- 
mediately after the ruin of Carthage, and in later 
times, the fall of the Moors in Spain produced exactly 
the same effect, upon the character of its inhabitants ! 

Nevertheless, a spirit had been aroused in Greece, 
which could not be immediately lost ; and in her 
earliest works we distinctly trace its vigorous opera- 
tion. The whole nation was inspired by the spirit 
of Homer ; and a few men of extraordinary powers 
arising, the literature of Greece became as remark- 
able for elegance and polish, as for vigour and inven- 
tion. 

The Greeks had very early been seized with a taste 
for dramatic exhibitions. It was a species of amuse- 
ment into which they entered, with amazing avidity. 
Honours were bestowed upon successful tragedies — 
the genius of iEschylus was aroused — and the Greek 
drama, from the most insignificant beginning, rose, 
at once, like the palace of Aladdin, into a beautiful, 
splendid, and regular edifice. Sophocles, with a genius 
of a different order, excelled even his master. And 
Euripides, who flourished during the Peloponnesian war, 
though the simplicity, for which the former writers 
were distinguished, was undoubtedly decaying, appears, 



170 ESSAY. 

at least in Greece, to have ranked as high as either of 
the former. 

Herodotus, in history, is equally remarkable for the 
immediate perfection to which he carried that branch 
of literature. And from Thucidydes, again, we learn, 
although in his own character, a person of great 
virtue and reputation, that in the beginning of the 
Peloponnesian war the simple beauty of the first age 
was no longer adapted to the popular taste. 

Pindar is the only one remaining of the early writers 
of Greece, whom it is necessary to mention. He is 
remarkable for a lofty simplicity, and a dignified soft- 
ness of language ; combined with a harmony, which is 
perfectly musical. Such was the commencement of 
Grecian literature. Such the developement of her 
genius — one which cannot, certainly, be paralleled for 
it magical rapidity! 

The Peloponnesian war was in itself a most vicious 
and immoral proceeding, and sufficiently proves, how 
rapidly the demoralization of the Grecian character 
advanced. It is foreign to the subject of the present 
essay, which treats only of the developement of its lite- 
rary character, "to enter upon — the cause of its decline ! 
else it would not be a very difficult task to show that 
this last was effected, and, in its progress, uniformly 
depended upon that demoralization. We may, there- 
fore, dismiss this part of the subject ; and direct our 
attention to those which are usually called the middle 
ages. 



ESSAY. 171 

We must begin the history of the second develope- 
ment of human intellect, from the fall of the Roman 
empire. Schlegel has sufficiently rescued the Goths 
from the charge of barbarously destroying the monu- 
ments of ancient genius. He has demonstrated that 
the Gothic dynasty in Italy, was, in fact, such as to 
have promised very highly, had it not been so speedily 
overturned. He has traced out, also, the develope- 
ment and progress of the modern languages of Europe ; 
from which it clearly appears,, that as soon as any 
language was rendered capable of regular construc- 
tion, a similar burst to that which has been described 
in Greece, immediately took place. All the different 
tribes, who gradually advanced from the recesses of 
Germany, that " officina gentium," as she has been 
termed, appear to have spoken nearly the same 
language ; and this language was evidently adapted to 
poetical composition, at a very early period. But as 
they proceeded to penetrate farther and farther into 
the Roman provinces, their ancient tongue became 
blended with the Latin, to the ultimate destruction of 
both. It was a natural consequence, also, of this union, 
that whenever a large proportion of either of the ori- 
ginal languages prevailed, that dialect should make the 
most rapid advancement towards regularity and preci- 
sion. Hence, when Gaul, for instance, was divided 
between the Franks, Goths, and Burgundians, one 
part only, which thence obtained the name of Pro- 



172 ESSAY. 

vence, remaining attached to the empire, the latter 
country led the way, in all Romanic dialects ; and 
brought to light those seeds of literature, which under 
the title of " Romance," and " La gaye science," 
spread their blossoms over the whole of the western 
world. In the same manner, when the Anglo-Saxon 
King Alfred, in disguise, entered the Danish camp, those 
barbarians, who were but lately arrived from their 
northern forests, appear to have understood his Saxon 
minstrelsy, without any difficulty. But of all modern 
nations, France and England appear to have been the 
latest in bringing their respective dialects to perfec- 
tion — which is clearly owing to the cause above men- 
tioned — namely, the number and the dissimilarity of 
the materials. 

This will appear very evident, if we trace the forma- 
tion of the English language. The Anglo- Saxon had pro- 
bably attained some slight degree of regularity, previous 
to the Norman invasion : whilst the latter people, who 
possessed a wonderful taste for poetry, had been nearly 
two centuries in France. The Norman French was, 
therefore, entirely different from the Saxon, which had 
no mixture of Latin with it. The Normans, for poli- 
tical, as well as other reasons, encouraged their own 
language, in preference to the Saxon, and thus was the 
progress of the English tongue exceedingly retarded. 
The additions it received in later times from the Latin, 
produced a further delay ; and it has, since that, received 



ESSAY. 173 

great improvement, from many beautiful derivations 
from the Greek. It was, therefore, natural, that our 
language should have been very late in arriving at any 
degree of precision : but, for the very same reason, it 
had the advantage of attaining a much greater 
beauty and variety, in its expression. It is not, we 
are of opinion, saying too much, if we call the present, 
nearly the first age of English composition : for we 
have now ascertained beyond dispute, that every per- 
son of common ability, and common education, can 
write his native tongue with ease and accuracy — 
which could never have been said of any former period. 
It ought also to be remarked, that the English and 
French, which were so late in ripening, are decidedly 
the best adapted, of all modern languages, to purposes 
of business and conversation. 

We are decidedly of opinion, that the more atten- 
tion we pay to these facts, the more reason we shall 
have to respect the talents of European writers, even 
when brought in competition with those of ancient 
Greece. It is not detracting from the merit of that 
distinguished country to say that, great and wonderful, 
as was the energy which her sons displayed, yet some- 
thing of the same kind took place, in every country of 
Europe, in the middle ages. 

The Greeks began with an unity of language—tra- 
ditional legends — the philosophy, to some extent, of 
Egypt — and every encouragement from the government 



174 ESSAY. 

and the public taste. The moderns had incalculable 
difficulties from their mixture of dialects ; but they were 
in possession of a greater variety of materials. The 
legends of our northern ancestors — the stores of classical 
antiquity — and, far more valuable than all the rest, the 
treasures contained in the inspired poetry of the He- 
brews — were all before them. Added to which, the 
spirit of Christianity gives a general harmony to the 
whole, which the sophistical philosophy and the absurd 
mythology of Greece entirely failed in producing. 
Speaking of individual energy, we may award the palm 
to Greece. Speaking of the value and absolute merit 
of both, we must award it to the modern literature ; it 
cannot be denied, that from many of its most striking 
beauties the Greeks were entirely precluded. 

The descendants of the immediate conquerors of the 
Roman empire, and their posterity, were as passion- 
ately fond of poetry as the Greeks, at any period. And 
as soon as they adopted the Christian faith, they 
began to clothe it in that most fascinating garb. In the 
ninth century, it became necessary to place a restraint 
upon this, as we learn from an edict, prohibiting the 
Nuns from singing certain songs of this nature, in 
which romance and religion were mingled in a peculiar 
manner. In time, the difficulty of writing in their 
native dialects, led to the use of the dead languages, 
which although fatal to the flowers of literature, at the 
instant, furnished, undoubtedly, the means by which the 



ESSAY. 175 

ultimate polish was attained, and modem literature 
brought to its present perfection. Our common ideas 
of the literature of the middle ages are far from ac- 
curate : the truth is, they only^ wanted a language in 
which to express themselves, in order to display a 
vigour of intellect for which we do not generally give 
them credit. They were forced into the use of the 
dead languages by the inflexibility and poverty of their 
own; and to this, we may justly ascribe that mist, 
which endured so many centuries. 

We have already mentioned that the Troubadours of 
Provence took the lead amongst the incipient poets of 
Europe. Here was formed the " Romance" tongue, 
the first of Romanic dialects ; and Europe was imme^ 
diately filled with their songs. Italy followed next: 
Boiardo, Ariosto, Dante, Tasso, and Boccacio appear- 
ed with a celerity, which reminds us of the flourishing 
period of Greece. A similar picture is presented in 
Spain. In our own country, what did Spenser and 
Shakspear, and even Milton want, but a more perfect 
language ? They lived too early, perhaps, for their 
own and their country's glory ; since the poverty and 
imperfection of their language was undoubtedly a dis- 
advantage : yet late enough to fix themselves in the 
highest rank of a literature, which may challenge com- 
petition with any, which the world has ever seen. The 
result of our enquiry must, therefore, be highly to the 
credit of modern literature ; nor need it shrink from 



176 ESSAY. 

the trial, even though submitted to a better pen, and a 
more circumstantial comparison. 

To conclude this essay, which is now becoming ne- 
cessary — we are disposed to think, that men, taken as 
communities, do not differ much in their mental, any 
more than in their bodily stature : and the more atten- 
tion we pay to the facts of history, the more we shall 
be convinced of this undoubted truth. It is education, 
habit, and opportunity, which give the advantage. 
Individual superiority, undoubtedly exists. A Homer 
or a Milton — a Plato or a Burke — an Aristotle and a 
Newton — will always be stars of superior brilliance : and 
when such arise again, they will as far outshine their 
cotemporaries, as the former did in their respective 
periods. The circumstances of Greece and Europe bear 
some slight analogy unto each other, as hath been point- 
ed out in the commencement of this essay ; but the 
manners and customs of mankind are so far changed, 
that the classical authors of antiquity are now only 
useful, to make us scholars, but exert little or no 
influence upon the human character. Of our own 
literature we can never entertain too high a value ; and 
the noblest object which the mind of man can propose 
to itself, is, that of adding another stone to the gene- 
ral edifice — and throwing open every path and avenue 
which can lead the rest of his species, to an acquaint- 
ance with, and an enjoyment of — its treasures. 



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Rolleston Colonel 
Rogers Rev. S. 

Stevens Lady F. 
Sitvvell Lady Dowager 



Sanders Mr. 
Scorer Mr. 
Scott Mr. 
Severn Mr. 
Shaw Dr. 
Sherbrooke Mrs. 
Ship man Mr. T. 
Sleight Mr. 
Smith H. Esq. 
Smith Mr. T. H. 
Sorby Mr. James 
Staveley Mr. 
Storer Dr. F.R.S. 
Surplice Mr. S. 
Surplice Mr. W. 
Swann Mr. J. 

Tallents Mrs. 
Taylor W. Esq. 
Taylor Mr. D. 
Thackray Mr. 
Tibbetts Miss 
Timms Mrs. 
Trentham Mr. W. 
Trochet Mrs. 
Twy cross Miss 

Unwin E. Esq. 

Vernon Hon. and Rev. J. 
Verelst Mrs. 
Verelst H. Esq. Major 
Vowe Mrs. 

Wake Mr. B. J. 
Wakefield Mr. Thomas 



LIST OF SUBSCRIBERS. 



Walker G. Esq. 
Wartnaby Mr. 
Watson Mr. 
Webster Mrs. 
Wells Mr. H. 
Wescombe J. E. Esq. 
Whittaker Mr. 
White Mr. G. VV. 
Wyatt Rev. W. 
Wild Mr. J. 
Wild man Colonel 
Wild man Mrs. 
Wilkins Archdeacon, D. D 
Wilkins Mrs. 
Williams Dr. 
Wilson Mrs. E. 
Wilson Mr. Fletcher 
Winter Mr. T. 
Wolley Rev. J. H, 



Woolley Mr. T. 
Wood Mr. 
Wright Colonel 
Wright Mr. John 
Wright Mr. I. 
Wright Mr. F. 
Wright Mr. I. C. 
Wright Mr. T. I. 
Wright Mr. M. 
Wright Mrs. M. 
Wright Mrs. W. 
Wright Miss E. 
Wright Mr. 
Wylde Mrs. 

York his Grace the 

Archbishop of 
Youle Mr. H. 
Young Mr. 



Should any error or omission he observed in the 
foregoing list, it is hoped that it will meet with every 
indulgence* 



J. HICKLIN AND CO. NOTTINGHAM, 



LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 




014 455 338 A 0\ 



